


Enjoying the view

by redtoes



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Jealous!Oliver, Slade in Starling City, Tumblr Prompt, fic requests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoes/pseuds/redtoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slade Wilson in Starling City, training with Oliver and flirting with Felicity and being his usual charming self. A response to a prompt from BeijingDoll on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Training

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.

“Well,” Felicity says, pushing her glasses up her nose, “this is interesting. And not in the Spock way. More like this mental image is going to stay with me for a while and I’m not really sure that's a bad thing.”

Diggle looks up at her from where he’s working at the desk. 

“Felicity,” he greets, then glances behind him where Oliver is shirtless (as always) and fighting an equally shirtless brawny man she’s never seen before with escrima sticks. “You got here just in time.”

“Why?” She asks, dumping her bag beside the computer. “Is the floor show about to begin?”

Diggle quirks an eyebrow, but she knows him well enough to see there’s concern hidden under the amusement.

“I’d say it's been going on for some time.”

Oliver ducks under a blow and lashes out, hitting his opponent in the back of the knee and forcing his leg to buckle.

The other guy doesn’t quite have Oliver’s height or leanness, instead he’s squarely built, all solid bulk and flat panes of muscle. And scars. Mustn't forget the scars. She's learned a lot about scars since she met Oliver Queen. They’re important.

Felicity watches as Oliver shifts his stance and brings the sticks around, managing somehow to flip the other guy up and over so he lands hard on his back.

It has to hurt, but the man just lets out an “Oof” of lost air, then grins up at Oliver.

“You’ve been practicing,” he says in an Australian accent. He sounds amused, almost proud.

“Some,” Oliver says, his tone flat.

“It took you long enough to learn in the first place,” the guy on the floor says. He grasps the hand that Oliver holds out and bounces up to his feet.

Looking now Felicity can see that he’s older than Oliver, has maybe ten years on him. There are lines around his eyes - a mixture of worry and laughter etched into his skin. He pulls a towel from a nearby hook and wipes his face, seemingly amused by everything around him.

Oliver crosses to Diggle and Felicity at the desk.

“What do we know about Giorgio Bennini?” He says briskly.

“Nice to see you too, Oliver,” Felicity responds. “I'm fine today, thanks for asking.”

“Good to know,” Oliver responds without missing a beat. “Bennini?”

“There’s nothing in the public records,” Diggle says, “to suggest he’s anything other than a local businessman. But I don't have Felicity’s magic touch.”

“Aw Digg,” Felicity grins, “you say the nicest things.”

Diggle steps up out of the chair and offers his place to her. She sits down with a smile and starts reviewing the data Diggle has already accessed.

“Are you going to introduce us?” She asks Oliver over her shoulder, “Or is this another of your crazy exes?”

Beside her Diggle snorts.

Oliver does that thing where it looks like he might be grinding his teeth but before he can say anything, the other man is there, offering her a hand.

“Slade Wilson,” he says, “I'm an... old friend of Oliver’s.”

“Ah,” she says, shaking his hand, “now is that kind of significant-pause-old-friend where I should be checking his back for scratch marks or a very thin euphemism for a shared castaway experience.”

Slade raises an amused eyebrow and barks out a laugh. He chuckles, low and deep, maintaining eye contact with her and there's a spark of... something. He hasn’t let go of her hand yet and the calloused pad of his thumb runs over the back of her hand in an intensely suggestive way.

Felicity feels herself blush and curses her pale skin.

“I knew Slade on the island,” Oliver says, and it's an effort to tear her eyes from Slade’s to look at him.

Slade chuckles again.

“You sure do know how to pick ’em,” he says, and Felicity is about to ask him what that means when the Australian lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says, holding eye contact with her, his hand holding hers close to his mouth. She can feel his breath on her skin. “Any... friend of Oliver’s...”

“Oh we’re not friends,” she says, then winces, “I mean we are friends but we’re not significant-pause type of friends. I’m his IT girl. Felicity. Smoak. Felicity Smoak.”

Slade grins. 

“Lovely to meet you Felicity Smoak.” Slade drops her hand and steps back, looking around. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says to Oliver.

“Thanks,” Oliver says, but he sounds strained. She looks at him but he’s turned away. She would swear he’s grinding his teeth again but that doesn't make sense and he has his back to her so she can't check.

To her left Diggle shakes his head, an amused expression on his face.

“Diggle,” he says, offering a hand to Slade, who accepts it with a nod.

“Wilson.”

“What brings you to town Wilson?”

Slade looks over at Oliver, as if asking for permission.

“They know enough,” Oliver says, “but I never told them this.” He shrugs. 

“Giorgio Bennini,” Slade says, “has ties to an organisation that Oliver and I have encountered before. I've been tracking them for several years and the trail led me here. I don't think it's a coincidence.”

“Can you get inside his system Felicity?” Oliver asks, “See what’s hidden from view?”

“I’ll try,” she says, “it might take a while.”

“Beautiful and talented,” Slade remarks, and Felicity feels herself blush again. She looks up and sees Oliver look away, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Felicity is very good at what she does,” Diggle says, in a neutral tone. Felicity glances up at him but he waves her concern off, so she returns her attention to the screens.

“I knew I should have come to Starling City earlier,” Slade says. But Felicity barely hears him, so engrossed is she in solving the puzzle of accessing Bennini’s systems. “You’ll have to give me the tour.”

“Will you be staying long?” Oliver asks.

“That depends,” Slade replies.

The desk shifts slightly and she looks up to see him, still shirtless, the towel dropped around his shoulders, leaning against the desk and grinning down at her.

“On what?” Oliver sounds testy. Felicity would be confused by it but a large part of her awareness is taken up with the mental fight not to stare at Slade’s chest.

Damn these shirtless men. How is a girl supposed to get any work done when they walk around like that?

“So,” Slade says, “how about that tour?”

“Sure,” Felicity says before she can think. “But hack first, right?”

“Come on Slade,” Oliver says, an edge to his tone. “Plenty more to show you right here.”

Slade grins at Felicity.

“Later,” he says, his tone amused.

And then he’s gone, crossing the floor to follow Oliver. Felicity looks up at Diggle and blinks.

“What just happened?” She asks.

Diggle shakes his head.

“If you have to ask...” he says, then snorts. “But then, maybe it’ll be good for him.”

“What?” She asks, genuinely confused.

“Hack now,” Diggle says, patting her shoulder. “We’ll deal with the rest later.”

Felicity returns her attention to the screens dutifully. And if her concentration wanes occasionally as she works her way through layers of encryption, she can't really be blamed. 

She’d say she wishes they would wear more shirts but then she wouldn't get to see the view.


	2. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not something I intended to write...and yet here we are.
> 
> Oliver, Felicity and Slade have dinner.

Slade flusters her in an entirely different way to how Oliver flusters her.

Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that around Oliver she flusters herself. But Slade flusters her all by himself and she doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

She's not some blushing virgin. She's in her twenties, there have been men. There have been relationships and flings and one night stands and one summer romance she thinks of fondly even if she can't quite remember his surname.

But the way Slade pays attention to her is different. He treats her as if she should be used to this kind of appreciation and she’s not. Or at least, not from someone like him.

As a rule her past lovers have been sweet, young, sensitive guys. Generally into the same kind of television or literature that she was. One was a charity worker, another an academic, a third a teacher in a private school. They owned cardigans and drank tea. All were smart, a little geeky, and somewhat socially awkward.

Just like she is.

They fit in that regard. 

There’s never been a man like Slade, confident and competent and very very dangerous.

Unless you count Oliver and she can't really because appreciating the view does not a romantic partner make.

She can be confident - you have to be at a card table or no one will buy your bluff. And she can scrub up nice - the braces and thick glasses of her teenage years are far behind her, now she has perfect teeth and fancy frames, the kind she always wanted.

But still. She’s just not used to this kind of attention. It unnerves her, a little. But it also excites her, and while she has no intention of starting something with a man who plays his cards closer to the chest than Oliver, she can't resist being drawn into the flirtation. At least a little.

He pesters her about a tour until she gives in.

“There's really not that much to see,” she says, “most of the Glades is still a building site. You don't strike me as a museum person. Not that our museums are worth much. The Queen wing at the Art Institute is pretty good. Lots of modernist stuff but that's about it.”

Slade smiles wryly.

“This really is his city isn’t it?”

“Huh?

“The Queen wing.”

“Oh,” she realises, “I hadn't really thought about it, but yeah, I guess it is.” She smiles. “There's also a Queen endowed building at SCU and one of my friends got the Queen scholarship for college.”

“You didn't apply?”

“Oh I had a full academic ride already,” she says, “I didn't need it.”

“I like smart women.”

Felicity blushes and ducks her head. Slade chuckles.

“I would have thought,” he says, “you’d be used to compliments.”

“Not really,” she admits. “But it's always nice to get one. Thanks.”

“If a tour is out, let’s have dinner,” he says, “and then a walk. You must have a favorite park. You strike me as a girl with a lot of favorite spots.”

Felicity blushes again, even if, technically, that isn’t really a double entendre.

“There’s a few places,” she says. “Maybe.”

“I could try and find them on my own,” he says, leaning in from what has definitely become his favorite spot to perch against her desk in the three days since he arrived. “That can be fun, too.”

Now that is a double entendre. But she’s too busy laughing to blush.

“Seriously,” he presses her, “dinner. Tonight. Say ’yes’.”

“Don't we have a mission tonight?” She says, “or at least you and Oliver do, I'll be here.”

“Doesn’t start until midnight,” he says, “and you have to eat...”

“We all do,” Oliver says from just behind her, his sudden appearance making her jump. “I think dinner sounds great, my treat.”

Felicity turns to see him staring at Slade with an unreadable expression on his face.

Slade chuckles and she turns her head to see only amusement on his features. Oliver, in contrast, seems on edge.

“Where shall we go?” She asks, trying to break the tension.

Oliver looks down at her. She can see him cycling through options.

“Big Belly?” She asks.

“No,” he says, “somewhere else.”

“Do you need me to make a reservation?”

He fixes her with a look.

“You’re not my PA Felicity,” he says, “I can do it.”

“Okay,” she says, “am I dressing up?”

“No,” he says and it’s more than a little sharp. She blinks but he’s already saying something else. “There’s an Italian place I know. Other side of the Glades, no dress code but great lasagne.”

“I love lasagne,” she admits.

“I know,” he says, “seven sound good?”

She checks her watch, it's just before six. 

“Seven works for me,” she replies, “Slade?”

“Seven,” he nods, “sure.”

Oliver pulls out his cell and heads for the stairs, dialing as he goes.

Slade looks after him, his amusement obvious.

“If we’re eating at seven,” Felicity says, pointedly, “I need to finish this.”

“I’ve got stuff to do,” Slade says, taking the out. “But I still want that walk.”

“Maybe,” she says, turning her attention back to the screens. “We’ll see.”

* * *

At 6:45 Oliver comes to the desk. He’s carrying her jacket, which strikes her as odd but maybe he just doesn’t want to be late.

Her stomach has been growling for the last 30 minutes. She really hadn't realised how hungry she was until he said the magic word ’lasagne’ and since then she hasn’t thought of much else.

At least with the part of her brain not reserved for coding. 

“Do they have bruschetta?” She asks, “I haven't had good bruschetta in ages.”

“They have bruschetta,” he confirms, holding out her jacket for her to slip her arms into rather than just handing it to her.

It’s unusual, but maybe this is just Oliver slipping into his playboy persona a little earlier than normal. They are about to go out in public after all.

He lifts her jacket up her arms, smoothing the material into place on her shoulders. His hands linger for a second and she could swear she feels his breath on her neck but then the moment passes so it must have been her imagination.

Slade appears out of the darkness, wearing a nicely fitted black shirt over jeans. It's the first time she's seen him in anything she can’t mentally term as combat gear and she has to admit it suits him.

Oliver is in his club-owner suit and she looks down at herself in her work clothes of skirt, blouse and flats and worries.

“Am I going to be underdressed?”

“Not at all,” Oliver says.

“You look beautiful,” Slade puts in.

Felicity blushes.

“Thanks.”

She picks up her bag and walks with them towards the exit.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” She asks Oliver, “it won't damage your cover?”

“It's not a high profile place,” Oliver says, “there won't be any press.”

“That's an issue?” Slade asks.

“Oliver’s Starling City royalty,” Felicity tells him. “Didn't you know?”

“Hardly,” Oliver says, but it’s drowned out by Slade’s guffaw.

“Well then,” the Australian says, “lead on my prince.” He steps up beside Felicity and offers her an arm. “We mere mortals live to follow.”

Oliver does that thing where she thinks he's grinding his teeth. 

“Fine,” he says, walking off, “I'm driving.”

Slade laughs and offers Felicity his arm again. She takes it and they follow Oliver out.

Oliver does drive. He also speeds. It takes Felicity two blocks before she realises why she feels something is wrong.

“Where’s John?”

“Spending some time with Carly,” Oliver replies shortly. 

“Oh.”

The silence in car is a little oppressive. Oliver is aggressively focused on the road while Slade looks out a window. She wonders if either of them have noticed the tension or if it’s just her imagination. These things are often her imagination. 

“So how did you find this place?” She asks.

“My father used to bring me here,” he says, “when I would come with him to visit the foundry we’d go for food after. They have the best hot chocolate in Starling City. Or they did.”

“When was the last time you see there?”

“Eight years ago,” he says, “maybe nine. But don’t worry, I googled and it’s still run by the same people.”

“Do you think they’ll remember you?”

“I doubt it.”

“I thought you were royalty?” Slade says.

“Not here,” Oliver replies, “here I was just that kid who drank all the hot chocolate.”

Felicity smiles. The idea of him as a boy, mischievous and hungry for more, is adorable. She wonders if there are pictures. She makes a mental note to run a search later. 

She looks up and Oliver meets her eyes in the mirror for a second. 

“So,” she says, “exactly how much hot chocolate are we talking about?”

* * *

The restaurant is small. More like a trattoria, if she remembers her Italian phrases correctly. It's very un-Oliver Queen. Small and personal, not showy and fashionable. 

“I booked a table for three,” Oliver says.

The proprietor, a small women with an olive complexion and shrewd eyes, blinks at him. She doesn't say anything but her eyes narrow. 

She looks down at the reservation book then back to him. Felicity doesn't quite understand why, it's not like the place is crowded. They probably didn't even need to book.

“Name of Queen,” he says and she nods.

Picking up three battered menus she guides them past tables to a corner. The walls are covered in framed photographs, some recent and colorful, others sepia and faded. Most appear to have been taken in this very corner.

She gestures at the table and Slade steps in, pulling out a seat for Felicity.

“Thank you.”

Felicity settles herself in a chair and slips off her jacket to lay it over the seat back. Oliver leans in and picks it up, hanging it on a hook on the wall she hadn’t noticed. 

“Thanks,” Felicity says.

The proprietor slaps her hand against Oliver’s chest and he turns to look at her, surprised.

“Robert’s boy,” she says. “You are Robert’s boy.”

“Yes,” he admits, “Robert Queen was my father.”

She nods and picks up the menu she had laid at his place at the table just seconds before.

“I remember,” she says, and moves back towards the kitchen, calling out something in rapid Italian.

Oliver sits down but he looks more than a little unsettled. 

“Perils of blue blood?” Slade says and Oliver cracks a smile but Felicity can see it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Guess I was wrong,” he says, glancing from them to the women.

“Do you think she remembers your order?” Felicity asks.

This time when he smiles it does reach his eyes and for a second he looks like a happy little boy, just as mischievous as she imagined. 

Felicity orders a glass of red wine but neither of the men drink, both sticking to water. 

She sips it slowly. She doesn't want to be drunk - they all have responsibilities later - but she's always felt its sacrilegious to eat Italian food without at least a little wine. 

And this food is so divine she wouldn't want to disrespect it for the world.

Oliver was right; the bruschetta is good, but the lasagne is even better. 

She and Slade ordered, but Oliver was hit again when he opened his mouth, then silenced with a glare. He acquiesced easily enough, smiling more than she’s seen him do in ages. 

As it turns out, the same food was delivered for both of them, bruschetta and lasagne, with a large mixed salad, a basket of bread and a few small saucers of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Slade ordered spaghetti and declined a starter, but he seemed happy enough with his choice.

“This is incredible,” Felicity said, using bread to wipe up the last of her lasagne sauce.

“You’ll want to save room for dessert,” Oliver warns her, but she can't stand to leave even the tiniest morsal uneaten.

“You have to bring me back here,” she says, “so I can eat everything on the menu.”

“I will,” he nods.

“Great!” She enthuses, “it’s a date! Or not because, we’re not dating, but I’m still going to hold you to that because food like this is too good to only eat once!”

It's possible the one glass of wine has gone to her head. Or maybe that’s just the afterglow of the best lasagne she’s ever had.

Slade chuckles and she looks up. Oliver has that look on his face like she’s just accidentally propositioned him again.

“Best you’ve ever had?” Slade asks.

“Oh,” she flushes, “the lasagne. Did I say that out loud?”

“I was in Naples once,” Oliver says, and she’s so grateful to him for changing the subject that she turns her entire body towards him with an exaggerated “hmm?”

“They make the best pizza ever in Naples,” he says. “Tommy and I, we ended up in this tiny place, amazing food, hidden away in the back streets. Full of locals.”

“Always good to eat where the locals are,” Slade says, “I remember this back street bar in Bangkok, amazing noodles. To this day I have no idea what I ate but it was good. Place didn’t even have a written menu.”

“I've never been anywhere,” Felicity says, “unless Coast City counts.”

“It counts,” Oliver says, but Slade speaks over him.

“Where would you like to go?”

“Oh everywhere,” she admits, thinking of the maps she had on her bedroom wall as a teen and the atlas she loved as a child. “Paris. London. Moscow. Beijing.”

“Beijing,” Slade says looking at Oliver, who winces.

She glances from one to the other.

“Is there a story?”

“Not a good one,” Oliver admits. “My family keep an apartment in Paris.”

“Really?” She says, allowing him to distract her. “Where?”

“14th arrondissement,” he says, “I think. I haven’t been there in a while.”

“Paris,” she sighs, thinking of the sights and the history and the food. “I’d love to go to Paris.”

“He has a private jet,” Slade points out, “get him to take you.”

Felicity turns her best beseeching eyes on Oliver and he laughs.

Before she can extract a promise dessert arrives. Five different plates of it.

“I didn't order this,” she says, but Oliver waves her objections away.

“It's what we always did,” he explains. “One of everything.”

“Must be nice being rich,” she says, thinking of private jets and apartments in Paris.

“It has its perks,” he admits, then holds out a forkful of tiramisu to her.

She moves her hand up to take it, but he moves the fork closer to her mouth so all she has to do is lean in and bite.

So she does, and her slight embarrassment at the intimacy of the motion is swiftly overtaken by full scale mortification when she can't help but moan a little at the divine taste of it.

She opens her eyes to see Oliver ever so close. His expression unreadable but intense.

Felicity blinks and he leans back.

“I always loved this tiramisu,” he says using the same fork to lift a chunk to his own mouth. 

Felicity uses her own fork to scoop up some creme caramel and it’s good, but the tiramisu is still better. 

The same is true of the chocolate mouse, the cheesecake and the homemade sorbet. Felicity eyes the much diminished plate of tiramisu that Oliver has restricted himself to.

“Don't you want to try some?” She asks Slade.

“No,” he shakes his head, “not much of a sweet tooth.”

“Your loss,” she says, moving her fork towards the tiramisu.

Oliver deflects her fork with his own.

“Hey!”

“What?” He says, a picture of innocence.

“Share,” she demands.

“You’ve got the other four,” he says.

“Yes, well,” she retorts, “you’ve got the best one, and you know it's the best one. Share.”

He ever so graciously allows her to take another forkful before scooping up the remainder himself.

“Next time,” she says, “we order two plates of that.”

“Next time,” he agrees and smiles.

She likes that smile. And she likes this place all the more for how much he’s smiled here. 

She excuses herself to the bathroom and comes back to find Oliver scowling at Slade.

“It's not like that,” she hears Oliver say as she sits down.

“What's not like what?”

“Starling City’s not like the island,” Oliver says.

“Well, no,” she agrees, “obviously.”

Oliver gives her an odd look and Slade laughs.

“Not that I would know,” she clarifies, “but I can't imagine they’re very similar.”

“I don't know,” Slade says, “this feels just like the island to me.”

Oliver glares at him, and Felicity quirks an eyebrow, but Slade won’t be drawn on the subject.

Oliver helps her on with her jacket and stays close, guiding her through the restaurant with a hand hovering above her lower back.

Slade follows, chuckling to himself.

“What's so funny?” She asks, but he just shakes his head. 

“It's a shame John couldn't come,” she says, but neither of them respond.

The social part of the evening must be over, she thinks, so, once she's seated in the car she retrieves her tablet and starts checking feeds to ensure there’s no nasty surprises waiting for them at Bennini's. 

Slade helps her out of the car back at the club. She smiles her thanks, thinking that both of them have been so gentlemanly tonight. She feels like a princess or a precious jewel, watched over and protected.

Then Slade lifts her hand to kiss her knuckles again and she gets the giggles.

She assumes the stony look on Oliver’s face is down to the impending mission, so she doesn't let it bother her. He’s always on edge when he's about to Hood up. 


	3. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why does Oliver always get injured on his shoulders?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding a trigger-warning here for non-consensual drug use. But it's minor and no one gets hurt. Just wanted to warn in case this is something that would trigger someone.

Of course Oliver ends up stabbed.

The evening had been far too pleasant for it not to end with stitches and antiseptic. 

Slade reports that it's a shoulder wound and she wonders why all of Oliver’s wounds are always in his shoulders? His mother’s bullet, the arrow he used to take out Merlyn; it's always his shoulders that suffer. She pushes the thought aside as she dutifully preps the medical supplies, and waits for them to arrive.

When Slade half-carries, half-walks Oliver into the basement Felicity’s heart stops in her chest. She’s seen him hurt, obviously, her first experience of the Hood involved bullets and blood, but this is different somehow. 

Maybe because she wasn’t expecting anything other than the usual stitches and patching and he seems genuinely hurt. It's been a while since he was actually in real danger from his wounds. Even stabbing himself through the chest didn't seem to weaken him as much as this has.

“What happened?” She asks as Slade helps Oliver up to sit on the edge of the table and she hovers nervously holding antiseptic wipes. 

“Sword,” Oliver grunts, obviously in pain.

“A sword?” She repeats, shocked. “Who fights with a sword?”

Oliver’s eyes go past her to Slade and despite his pained expression she can tell he's a little amused. 

“Who fights with a bow and arrow?” Slade retorts, but he sounds gruff not annoyed. “Swords are classic for a reason.”

Felicity glances at him and suddenly sees the scabbard on his back. She can't honestly says she has noticed it before.

Slade’s eyes track the direction of her gaze.

“It wasn't me,” he says, “lots of people use swords.”

“Apparently,” Oliver puts in.

“Get that off him,” Slade says, gesturing at his jacket. 

Felicity obeys, stepping close to Oliver and trying hard not to catch his eye as she undoes his jacket. 

He lets out a painful groan when she pushes the leather off his wounded shoulder. She tries her best to be gentle, leaning in close to slip it down his arm. But there’s only so much she can do to minimise his pain, the wound is deep and removing the jacket forces him to move his arm causing fresh blood to sleep from the long gash in his skin. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

She leans around the other side of him to strip the jacket the rest of the way off, and he he lets out his breath in a sigh when his skin is finally free of the leather.

He’s not wearing anything underneath. But then, she’s seen the view before. She tries very hard not to notice anything but what injuries need attention.

In addition to the deep slash on his shoulder, there’s a few shallow cuts on his forearms and a small puncture at the base of his neck.

“Who did this?”

“Bennini hired a professional,” Slade says. “Big guy, two blades. Had a mouth on him too.”

“Had?”

“Still alive,” Oliver says, shortly, “got away.”

“Next time,” Slade says. He steps in close and peers at Oliver's shoulder. “This will need a lot of stitches. You could do with a transfusion.”

“Felicity,” Oliver says, and she crosses to the fridge and retrieves a bag of his blood and the transfusion kit.

“Is there anything you can't do?” Slade says as she wipes an alcoholic wipe over Oliver’s forearm and inserts the needle. She looks up to see an impressed look on his face. 

“I'm not a good cook,” she admits.

“Heh,” Slade chuckles, “you can't be worse than him.”

“Hey,” Oliver objects, “we didn’t exactly have a gourmet kitchen.”

He’s talking in full sentences again, so she’ll take that as a good sign. She only really worries about him when he’s silent. Or monosyllabic. 

“Besides,” Oliver adds, “there’s a limit to what you can do with a dead rabbit.”

“You always seemed to find a way to make it inedible,” Slade remarks as he cleans the wound on Oliver’s shoulder. Felicity stands nearby handing him supplies as he needs them.

Oliver is wincing, trying to keep still.

“Do you have any local?” Slade asks.

“No,” Oliver says immediately but Slade ignores him, looking to Felicity.

“Local?” She asks.

“Local anaesthetic,” Slade explains, “or some other kind of painkiller?”

“I said no,” Oliver points out.

“Don't be a child,” Slade chides, “a man in pain can't be trusted.”

“Tie me down then.”

“For stitches?” Slade shakes his head. “This isn't the island, why put yourself through it?”

“I don't like the side effects.”

“They make him loopy,” Felicity explains, “he won't take them.”

“Fine,” Slade turns and rifles through the medicine cabinet. 

Felicity wipes antiseptic over Oliver’s lesser wounds. They’re pretty shallow but the puncture especially could do with a stitch or two.

What does it say about her that she knows that now?

“Should I call John?” She asks Oliver.

“Slade can handle it,” he replies. “He's done it before.”

Felicity nods. 

“Where is John?” She asks, trying to distract herself but her eyes stay fixed on the wound in his shoulder. It gapes red, his skin rent and split.

“Out,” Oliver says. “There was something else he needed to do.”

The wound looks painful. A sword must hurt when it slices into skin. As she watches more blood leaks out and she reaches up to dab at it.

“Felicity.”

Felicity starts as Oliver’s hand comes up and tilts her chin, forcing her eyes to move from his wound to his face.

“Sorry,” she says.

“I forget how new all this is for you,” Oliver says. 

“It's been months,” she says.

“I know,” he sighs, “sometimes I really regret pulling you into this world.”

“And other times?” She asks.

He smiles ruefully.

“Other times I’m really glad I met you.” 

His hand is still on her chin when Slade comes back. He doesn’t look away from her as the burly Australian lays out medical supplies on the bench beside him.

He also holds out two pairs of handcuffs, and Oliver snaps one cuff around his wrist then secures it to the table. He nods to Felicity to do the other and she does so, her fingers a little shaky.

“So,” Slade says conversationally, “I decided you were being an idiot.”

And with that he plunges a syringe into the flesh of Oliver's shoulder.

Oliver immediately turns angry, pulling at his restraints.

“Bastard!” He snarls. “Slade!”

Felicity steps back in shock.

“I didn't want drugs!”

“You weren’t thinking straight,” Slade says calmly, “so I made the decision for you.”

“I don't like the drugs!” Oliver yells, “you bastard, how could you?”

“You’ve met me, right?” Slade says. He’s standing outside of Oliver’s admittedly very limited reach and is threading a needle.

Oliver pulls against the cuffs, cursing and snarling. Slade ignores him, but when one particularly vicious twist causes more blood to flow from his shoulder wound, Felicity steps in.

“Hey,” she says, trying to calm him. “Hey!”

Oliver up is too busy cursing Slade in the most colorful and aggressive language she’s ever heard him use.

She steps in, reaching for him, but he doesn’t see her.

“Hey,” Felicity repeats, deciding to take a leaf out of his book and taking hold of his face in both hands.

He immediately stills.

His eyes lock onto hers and he stares. He’s still breathing heavily and she can feel his heartbeat racing.

“He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t,” she says, shooting Slade a dark look, “but it's okay, it’s done. Focus on me and let him stitch you up.”

“Felicity.” He says and his tone is different. It's lower, almost mournful.

“Yes,” she says, “I’m here.”

“Don’t go,” he says and she suddenly realises that his pupils look glassy.

“I'm not going anywhere,” she reassures him.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Slade step in and start poking at the wound. She takes a small step in the opposite direction, turning Oliver’s face away from the stitches.

“Felicity,” he says, and he was right, he does sound drugged. Drunk almost.

“I didn't know you would react this quickly,” she says.

He grins, a little goofily.

“You liked the tiramisu,” he says, the syllables of the dessert coming out a little slurred.

“I did,” she confirms, trying hard not to find drugged-up-on-painkillers-Oliver adorable. She’s never actually seen him like this before, just heard from Diggle why they always use numbing wipes and not painkillers for stitches. Diggle hadn't mentioned cuteness, just insobriety.

Still, that wound is deep. Numbing wipes wouldn't have done much to help there. But she’s sure there was another way to stitch it that wasn't Slade drugging Oliver against his will. That makes her think less of him.

“I'm glad you liked the tir-su,” he says. Suddenly he pushes his face foreword and rests his forehead against hers.

She blinks, surprised to suddenly have him so close.

She goes to drop her hands but he makes a objecting noise so she keeps them where they are.

“Oliver,” she says, feeling like she’s taking advantage of him in some way.

“Felicity,” he replies.

It's a little strange that he doesn’t trip over the syllables of her name despite his inebriation. 

“You’re pretty,” he says and rubs her nose with his own in what kids at school called an Eskimo kiss. 

Off to the side Slade laughs.

“This isn’t funny,” she says. “He’s really out of it.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re here to take care of him,” Slade says. “There, all done.”

Felicity pulls back from Oliver far enough to see the gauze on his shoulder. 

“Felicity!”

She turns back to Oliver. He’s pouting.

“Felicity,” he says again and shakes his wrists, obviously wanting the cuffs to be removed.

She risks a glance at Slade but he just shrugs.

“So long as he’s in this mood and not the other one I think we’re okay.”

Oliver turns his head at Slade’s voice and glares. Unlike his normal glare this is decidedly unscary - right now he has more in common with an angry teddy bear than the Hood.

“How long will he be like this?”

“It’s fast acting,” Slade shrugs, “but it's not a large dose. An hour. Maybe a little more.”

She nods.

“That wound,” she says, pointing at the puncture, “could do with a stitch or two, don’t you think?”

“Probably, but he’ll need to lie down. Good luck getting that to happen.”

“Oliver,” Felicity says, turning back to him and moving her face close to his. “I need you to lie down, will you lie down for me.”

Oliver immediately moves to do that, but one of the sets of handcuffs is in the way and Slade has to unlock it. 

They end up with Oliver flat on his back, one hand still restrained. Felicity pulls a stool up to sit near his head on the opposite side, where his hand is free. He immediately pulls the wheeled stool as close as it can be, then takes one of her hands and lays it back against his cheek.

“Felicity.” Oliver says happily.

“He’s treating you like a comfort blanket.” Slade points out.

“He’s been stabbed with a sword,” Felicity snaps, “and then you roofied him. He gets whatever comfort he wants.”

“Felicity.” Oliver tugs on her arm so she returns her attention to him. He pulls on her so she’s leaning down close to him and he threads his hand into her hair, his fingers slipping in underneath the fixture of her pony tail and just holding her there. Close.

Felicity blinks. She didn’t expect this.

“Felicity.” Oliver says again.

“Oliver.” She replies.

“You’re pretty,” he says, and then just looks at her.

He’s holding her in place maybe six inches from his face. His hand is in her hair. Her hand is on his cheek. It’s incredibly intimate and she feels terrible for letting this happen when he’s so out of it. Obviously he’s out of it, because this has never happened before. And probably won't again.

She can't deny she’s had thoughts, fantasies even, that run along similar lines. But he’s hurt and he’s stoned and all she can think is how much he’s going to hate the fact that she saw him like this when he sobers up.

She’s aware, in her peripheral vision, of Slade leaning over him to stitch the chest wound, but really all she can see are trusting blue eyes.

He breathes deeply, calm now, and slowly his eyelids start to droop.

Within a few minutes he’s asleep, and she gently pulls his hand out of her hair and places it by his side.

She takes a second to fix the mess that he made of her pony tail then goes to fetch a blanket.

Slade is applying the final bandages to Oliver when she returns.

“How long will he sleep?”

“Depends,” Slade shrugs, “I wan’t expecting that strong a reaction to the meds. No wonder he didn't want to take them.”

Felicity raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’ll apologise in the morning,” he says. 

Felicity tucks the blanket around Oliver.

“I never asked,” she says, “where are you staying?”

“I've got a hotel room,” he says, “somewhere low key. It’s not too far.”

“It's almost five...” She says, thinking out loud.

“I’d ask you to come back with me,” Slade says, stepping in. His hand comes up to cradle her elbow and she turns, suddenly very aware of him. He’s shorter than Oliver, so his face is closer to hers at this distance than Oliver’s would be. “I'd ask you to come back with me,” he repeats, “but I know you’re going to stay.”

“Someone should be here when he wakes up.”

“Someone?”

“I want to be here when he wakes up,” she admits. “I feel bad, I feel like I just took advantage of him. I need to make up for that.”

“From my point of view,” Slade says, “I think you just let him take advantage of you. And besides, I drugged him, not you.”

“Guilt by association,” Felicity says, smiling weakly.

Slade’s mouth twitches. 

“Look,” he says, “I'm only passing through, I won't be staying. But I like you. I'd like to know you better. But I don't want to step on any toes here.”

“What?” She says, genuinely perplexed. “What toes, there are no toes.”

“That,” he says, gesturing at Oliver, “was not something you do for a friend.”

“He was scared and angry,” she says, “I knew I could help. Distract him.”

“If you say so,” Slade answers, “but I think there’s more to it than that.”

“I'm not his type,” she says evenly. “He likes gorgeous brunettes.”

“There are exceptions to every rule.”

“I'm his IT girl Slade, that’s it.”

“Is that all you want it to be?”

“That’s all it is.” She’s not sad as she says this. She’s not pining for Oliver Queen or lovesick over him. She’s practical. Realistic.

Slade steps in, closer.

“So if I do this,” he says, “I'm not getting in the way.”

“Nothing to get in the way of,” she says, “and do what?”

“This,” he says, leaning in to kiss her.

Slade's lips press gently against hers, then he pulls back, watching her intensely.

He’s waiting for something, waiting for her.

Felicity doesn’t think about Oliver, doesn’t look at Oliver. She focuses on Slade. He’s older than she is and he won’t be staying, and he’s a dangerous man with a past she knows nothing about, but he’s here, kissing her softly, gently, and waiting for her to decide if she wants to be kissed again.

She finds she does.

She puts her arms around his neck, and she feels his hands gently rest on her hips and she tilts her head up (because he’s shorter than Oliver but he’s still taller than her) and kisses him.

He returns the kiss, but doesn’t deepen it. This is no teenage make out, it's teasing and tempting, but it’s also five in the morning and both of them are exhausted.

He pulls back.

“In about eight hours,” he says, “it'll be lunchtime. I’m taking you out to lunch and for that walk. I know you’ll stay, but see if you can get some sleep.”

“Okay,” Felicity says. She feels flushed and happy from the kiss. It was a kiss that suggested more than it promised but she's not complaining. “I’d like that.”

He looks past her to Oliver.

“I can see why you’d do it,” he says, “that boy gets under your skin. Just be sure you’re here for the right reasons.”

“I don't understand,” she says, furrowing her brow.

“Don't worry about it,” he says, “I'll see you later.”

He presses a soft kiss to her cheek, and his hand slides over her back like a promise.

And then he’s gone.

Felicity pulls her desk chair over to Oliver's table, rests her feet on the stool and wraps her coat around her.

Her head is full of thoughts; Slade’s kiss, their planned date, but the memory of Oliver’s eyes is also there. Trusting and blue and right there.

She falls asleep thinking of kisses and scars and eyes, but at the moment sleep takes her, she’s not sure if the eyes are blue or brown.


	4. Eavesdropping

She wakes when she turns in her sleep and her feet fall off the stool. She snaps back to consciousness an instant before her heels hit the floor and she can't clamp down on the yelp she lets out at the impact.

Oliver immediately sits up at the sound. The blanket falls back and his still handcuffed wrist chinks against the metal table.

“What the-?” His eyes snap to her, huddled over her jarred ankles. “Felicity?”

“Morning Oliver,” she says, rubbing her feet. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Felicity,” he says in tone that sounds like it’s trying to be calm, “why am I handcuffed to the table?”

“Ah,” she says, sitting up, “you were stabbed? And you needed stitches?”

“You’re asking me?”

“No,” she says, wincing, “you were stabbed and you needed stitches and you wouldn't take a painkiller so Slade handcuffed you, drugged you and stitched you up.”

“Slade drugged me?”

“Yes. How much do you remember?”

“I remember a guy with two swords.”

“Slade said he was a professional.”

“He was fast,” Oliver admits, “faster than I expected.”

“How’s your shoulder? Can you move your arm?”

Oliver holds up the arm in question to show that he’s still handcuffed.

“Right,” Felicity blushes, “I’ll get the key.”

She hurries over to the workbench to look for it.

“Did...” Oliver hesitates, “Did anything else happen?”

“Nope,” Felicity says cheerfully, “Slade stitched you up and you asked me not to go, so I stayed to make sure you were okay.”

She finds the key and gives him a smile as she crosses back to him.

“I asked you not to go?”

“You were a little out of it.” Felicity turns the key in the handcuff lock and frees his wrist. “I'm not sure why you need a key,” she adds, hoping to distract him, “I thought you said you could pick these.”

“I need something to pick it with,” Oliver states, “also it’s too early.”

Felicity glances at her watch and grins.

“Nine am is too early for escape attempts?”

“It is today,” he lifts his arm, testing his range of motion and winces.

“Don’t tear your stitches.”

“I won't.”

Felicity leaves him sitting on the table and crosses to her desk. The system is running normally, no change since she last looked at it while she waited for Slade to bring an injured Oliver in.

Slade.

Slade kissed her.

Felicity smiles to herself. She hadn’t expected that, but she can’t deny it was nice. She wonders where he’ll take her for lunch.

She thinks about the kiss and absent-mindedly touches her lower lip at the memory.

It's been a while since she kissed anyone. It's been a while since she met anyone she wanted to kiss.

Or rather since she met anyone she wanted to kiss who also wanted to kiss her.

She is very much not thinking about the half-naked man behind her as she thinks this.

A hand comes down on her shoulder and she jumps.

She turns to see Oliver, wrapped in bandages and a blanket and it's so familiar to her, déjà vu of the first time she met the real him.

“Thank you,” he says. His hand squeezes her shoulder and he smiles. “Thank you for staying.”

“It’s okay,” she says, “what are friends for?”

Oliver looks conflicted and she mentally replays her sentence and winces, wondering if she just reminded him of Tommy.

“I should go,” she says. “Big day today.”

“Oh?” he asks politely.

“I'm having lunch with Slade,” she says, “then I'm going to take another run at Bennini’s system for you.”

“Ah,” he says. “That should be...” 

She raises an eyebrow when he doesn't finish the sentence.

“Thank you,” he says instead, “we need that information.”

“Okay,” she nods. “I'm going to go home and shower, because I've been wearing these clothes for far too long. Is there anything you need before I go?”

“No,” Oliver says. He’s turned away and she can't see his face anymore. “I don't need anything.”

“Should I call John?”

“I can do it,” he says, and he’s gone, disappeared into the darkness of the basement.

Felicity chalks that gruffness up to a possible drug hangover and shoulders her bag. She’s thankful it’s the weekend. She doesn’t think she could face a day of work after a night like this one. 

* * *

About half an hour before she’s expecting Slade she realises that he probably doesn't know where she lives. And she doesn’t know where he’s staying. So he's probably expecting to pick her up at the club.

She managed to grab a two hour catnap on her sofa, but she’s still relying on her coffee travel mug to provide the energy she’ll need for the rest of the day.

It’s a bright day though, and it would be shame to spend it all sleeping. She decides on a pretty sundress and sandals, and lets her hair down. She keeps the glasses on though, her only sunglasses are prescription and today is bright enough that she’ll need them.

She leaves her apartment and drives to the club. The entirety of Starling City seems to be out enjoying the weather today. Everywhere she looks are families and couples enjoying the sunshine. She likes the idea that she will be part of that later. It’s been ages since she’s been on a proper date.

She parks one block from Verdant and swaps her regular glasses for the sunglasses. Walking down the road in her sundress she feels pretty - happy and light in way she doesn’t quite think she’s felt for months.

Today is going to be a good day.

Slade’s not in the basement when she arrives so she takes a second to check on the system.

“You could just tell her,” she hears Diggle say distantly.

Felicity looks around and she can't see him. She pushes back from the desk and goes to look.

“No I can't,” she hears Oliver say, “there’s nothing to tell.”

“Oliver,” Diggle says, and even though she can't see them she can imagine the look on his face that goes with that tone. It’s his 'don’t be an idiot' tone. “Don't be an idiot.”

“She’s going on a date with him.”

Felicity freezes in her step. Are they talking about her? About her and Slade?

She can tell now that Oliver and Diggle are on the far side of the shelves, in one of the areas Oliver uses for combat training.

“Yeah well,” Diggle says, “whose fault is that?”

Felicity edges along, trying to move silently. She knows that nothing good can come of eavesdropping but she can't bring herself to walk away. If they’re talking about her and Slade she wants to know why.

“He’s dangerous,” Oliver says, “I don’t like it.”

Felicity tries to think; isn't Thea dating a boy from the Glades? Could this be about her?

“Did you talk to her about it?”

“I tried,” she can actually picture the frustrated way Oliver will be holding his head right now. This must be about Thea and her wrong side of the tracks boyfriend.

“I just... want something better for her,” Oliver says. “Everything she’s gone through, I just want her to be happy.”

Yes, this has to be about Thea.

“Oliver,” Diggle says, “I wasted years just wanting Carly to be happy. Don't make the same mistake.”

Oliver doesn’t say anything, but Felicity can hear the sound of sticks clattering against each other, so she assumes they’re back to training.

Thoughtful, she walks back to the desk. That must have been about Thea. It couldn't be about her. Because if it was about her, then that suggests that Oliver is unhappy about her dating Slade, and that thought leads to the question of why would Oliver be unhappy she’s daring Slade?

Is it possible that he’s jealous? 

Felicity sits at the desk listening to the muffled sounds of Oliver and Diggle’s combat training.

She’s bothered by this. Confused. Oliver has never shown any sign of interest in her. He’s been actively amused and occasionally unnerved by the interest she’s shown in him. 

Does she like him? Yes. Definitely. As a friend.

But is her interest more than friendly? She’s not sure.

She’s thought about him like that, she'll admit it. She would be amazed if there are any women in his life that he’s not biologically related to who haven't thought of him like that at one point or another. But an idle fantasy does not a relationship make. 

“Hey there.”

Felicity looks up to see Slade smiling at her.

“Thinking deep thoughts?” He asks.

“Thinking code thoughts,” she replies.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Uh-huh,” she picks up her bag and stands up.

“Felicity.” 

Felicity turns to see a shirtless Oliver, gleaming with sweat, looking at her.

“Hey Oliver,” she says brightly, trying not to let any of her inner turmoil show.

Oliver looks from her to Slade then back to her.

“Have a nice lunch,” he says, then turns and walks away.

“Shall we go?” Slade asks, offering her his arm.

Felicity looks away from Oliver’s back to Slade and forces herself to smile and relax.

“I’d love to.”

He grins as she takes his arm.

“You look beautiful by the way,” he says and she smiles.

And doesn’t think about Oliver at all.


	5. Dating

Slade buys her a hotdog in the park.

“I know it might not be up to the standards you’re used to,” he says with an apologetic smile.

“What?” She has to cover her mouth because she’s already chewing. She loves hotdogs, love mustard and onions and ketchup. She swallows and grins at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m competing with Oliver Queen,” he says, nonchalantly. “This can’t be where he takes you for dinner.”

“You’re not competing with Oliver,” she says, pushing all thoughts of the overheard conversation to the back of her mind. “And last night was the first time he’s ever bought me dinner, so, no high life here to compete with.”

“He doesn’t buy you dinner?”

“He buys lunch sometimes,” Felicity says, “for Diggle and me at Big Belly. But he takes the whole secret identity thing pretty far. I'm not part of that whole side of his life.”

“So no trip to Paris in the private jet?”

“No,” she sighs, “probably not.”

“That's a shame,” Slade says, “if I had you in my life, you’d be in all of it.”

“What?” She grins, “even the shooting and stabbing parts of it?”

“You’ve proved yourself competent.”

“At tech support and bandages,” she says, “not the rest.”

“You're more competent than he was when I first met him,” Slade shrugs. 

“No way.”

“Oliver said you infiltrated an underground casino,” he says.

“And then he had to come rescue me,” she remarks wryly.

“He was still pretty impressed,” Slade says.

“He said that?” Felicity asks, honestly shocked. “He used the word ’impressed’?”

“All that and more,” Slade says. “He’s got a lot to say about you.”

“Oliver talks about me?” She asks, pushing away the thought that he was definitely talking about someone back in the basement. But it was almost certainly Thea.

“Yes,” Slade says, watching her closely, “He does.”

“Huh,” she muses.

“Are you surprised?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I didn't think he really thought about me all that much,” she says, honestly. 

“I think you’re wrong,” Slade says.

“I think,” she says with a smile, “that your hotdog is getting cold.”

He grins and eats half of it in one large mouthful. She laughs, delighted at this playful side of him. And she once again pushes thoughts of Oliver Queen aside.

They walk through Starling Park, the main green area in the city. It's not the prettiest or the most well maintained of all the parks in Starling City but it is by far the busiest. It seems like every spot of grass is taken up with a picnic blanket or ball game. It's just as she thought this morning - all of Starling City is outside today, enjoying the sunshine.

She’s enjoying the sunshine too.

She buys Slade an ice cream and the two of them wander down the path at a lazy pace.

She learns he has a son. Has an ex-wife. The marriage ended because of his job, his work. He glosses over exactly what that was, but he does tell her about time in the army and special forces. It sounds like he and Diggle might have been a hair’s breadth away from meeting in Afghanistan more than once.

She laughs at his jokes and listens to his stories. He’s lived an interesting life, a global life, flitting from place to place and job to job.

He asks her about her life and she’s embarrassed to talk about living in only one city and her plain everyday life path of school, college, job.

“You put yourself down too much,” he says.

And she blinks.

“No,” she objects, but he interrupts.

“You do.” He insists, “what is it that you don't think you’re good enough for?”

His eyes have narrowed, and she doesn't have an answer and so she looks past him, her eyes searching for a distraction and she sees -

Oliver.

Felicity blinks and he’s gone. Never there. Just a guy in the crowd with a green hood. 

She stares, not quite believing. Did she just really see him or are her eyes playing tricks on her?

Slade takes in her expression and sighs.

“Sorry,” she says, “I just thought I saw...”

“Yeah,” Slade says, half sheepish, half amused. “He’s been tailing us for about an hour.”

“What?” Felicity reacts, her eyes snapping to his. 

“And your man Diggle,” Slade says, “is over there by the lake. Grey hood.”

Felicity turns before she can stop herself and yes, there's a man in a grey hood in the middle distance beside the lake. His back is to them so she can't be sure, but the body shape and size is familiar. 

“I can't believe it,” she says, completely shocked.

“I don't think they trust me,” Slade says.

“Why?”

“I don't think they trust me with you.”

“Why?” She says again, “what are you going to do?”

“Nothing you don't want me to,” he says.

Felicity sets her jaw, annoyed at Oliver’s invasion of her privacy. This is her life, she gets to live it. And even if Slade is new to her, Oliver has known him for years - he wouldn’t have trusted him to stitch his wounds and fight by his side otherwise. 

“I'm going to kill him.”

“Him? I see two of them.”

“This is all Oliver,” she says, “John’s probably only here to stop him doing something stupid.”

“He does have a tendency towards stupid,” Slade admits. “Got us into trouble more than once.”

She eyes him.

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Yes,” he admits.

“It’s not working.”

“No.”

Felicity pulls out her phone and taps into the secure GPS app she built to support Oliver. Sure enough, his cell and Diggle’s both ping within fifty feet of her current location.

Confirmation.

Not that she really doubted Slade but still.

She considers her options. She could confront them, but then the rest of this so far very pleasant day is lost. She could ignore them, but she won't relax again. Slade seems content to let it slide, but she hates this and can't see how she could let it go.

“It's almost three,” Slade says. “We could call it a day.”

“No,” she snaps, then immediately offers an apologetic smile. “He doesn’t own me and he doesn’t get to follow me on dates.”

“They’re probably following me,” Slade says.

“You don't know that.”

“Well,” he says, scratching his head, “I have thought I’ve had a shadow these past few days.”

She stares at him and he nods his head in Diggle’s direction. 

“What?”

“Oliver and I didn’t part on the best of terms,” Slade says, sounding almost embarrassed. “I don't blame him for being careful.”

“If he came to your city, would you watch him?”

“I don't have a city.”

“But if you did?”

“Maybe,” he admits. He eyes her then shrugs. “I'd want to protect what was important to me.”

Felicity looks past Slade, her eyes searching the crowd. She doesn't feel she can look at him while she asks this.

“Do I need protecting from you?”

“No,” Slade smiles, “but I think I might need your protection pretty soon.”

“Huh?” She says, looking back at him, but then he’s stepping in and kissing her and it’s so different than last night’s kiss. 

The kiss in the basement was a beginning, an offer. This one is a statement.

Felicity feels swept along and she wraps her arms around him and holds on. Her mouth opens to him and she feels his tongue tease hers.

One of his hands is on her neck, the other arm is a bar across her lower back, holding her against him.

Her knees feel weak.

It's one hell of a kiss.

Slade pulls back, lifting his lips from hers but still holding her ever so close.

She stares up at him, a little dizzily.

“Did you just kiss me,” she asks, “to annoy Oliver?”

“I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you,” he grins, “pissing off Oliver was a bonus.”

He kisses her again, then moves his head around to whisper in her ear.

“If I asked you to come back to my room with me, how long do you think it would be before there would be an emergency?”

“I don't understand,” she says, “but I'm not going back to your room with you.”

“Yet.” He grins.

“Yet.” She smiles.

Abruptly her phone starts to ring.

“Ah,” he says, pressing one final kiss to her lips. “There's that emergency.”

He disentangles himself from her and she’s amazed to find she still has the strength to stand on her own. 

That really was a hell of a kiss.

The phone in her hand has Oliver’s face on the screen. She stares at the screen for a long moment, then accepts the call.

“Oliver,” she says, before he can say anything. “Stop following me.”

She hangs up the call and Slade laughs.

“You really think that will stop him?”

“Probably not,” she admits. “But at least he knows I know he’s there.”

She offers him her hand and he takes it.

“How are you at ditching a tail?”

“Are you sure?” He asks.

“You could teach me,” she says, “I’m sure it will come in handy to know and besides, playing spy games could be fun...”

Slade smiles tightly and she realises she must have hit a nerve.

“Sorry,” she says, but he shrugs it off.

“No," he says, “you’re right. It's just, are you sure you want to be alone with me?”

“Slade,” she says, squeezing his hand. “I thought I already was.”

“If we manage to lose both of them,” he says reasonably, “they’re going to worry about you.”

“There's nothing to worry about,” she says, “right?”

“Right.”

Slade looks around them.

“Losing a tail in a public park isn’t all that easy,” he says, “there’s lots of open spaces, vantage points. And this crowd is too spread out to be of much use.”

He starts walking, artificially causal. She walks with him, keeping hold of his hand.

“Where would be better?”

“Either somewhere with lots of people,” he says, “or somewhere your pursuer can’t follow.”

The path leads them into a small wooded area, and Slade checks over his shoulder. 

“Can you see them?”

“No.”

Felicity lifts her phone, looking at the GPS map on the display. 

“Looks like Oliver is ahead of us,” she says. “John is back there somewhere.”

Slade considers.

“What's on the other side of these trees?”

“Basketball courts,” she says, “and an open air cafe, and the gate to North street.”

“Okay,” he says, “keep your eyes on that map. Lets see if we can cut them off.”

He climbs the short bank into the woodland and holds a hand down to her.

His grip on her wrist is strong, secure, and it's an easy thing to use him as an anchor point as she scampers up the verge.

“These aren't really the right shoes for this,” she says.

“Could be worse,” he says looking at her flat sandals. 

“I didn't know we’d be avoiding pursuit,” she grins. “I'd have worn something less colorful.”

Slade leads her through the small copse of trees quickly. 

“Where are they now?”

“GPS has them still on the path,” Felicity says.

“It won't take them long to realise we cut through the woods.”

There’s a waist high wooden fence made of slats and Slade braces with one hand then leaps over.

Felicity climbs up on the first fence bar. Slade leans back over and lifts her by the waist. 

“You make that look easy,” she says as he lowers her to the ground.

He chuckles.

“Come on.” He offers her a hand and they jog down the grass to the basketball courts. There’s a stall selling knock-off sporting goods and he hands over money for two baseball caps.

“Tuck your hair up,” he says offering her a cap. She does so, winding her hair into a loose bun then pulling the cap down on it.

She looks up to see him unbuttoning his dark shirt. Underneath he’s wearing a black vest. He offers her the shirt and she slips into it. It’s long enough and loose enough to cover the bright colors of her sundress. She fastens a few buttons and takes a moment to appreciate the impressive view of his arms.

“Where are they?”

He checks the GPS.

“Oliver’s heading this way,” she says. “John’s not.”

“Do they know how to track you on that thing?”

“Yes,” she says, “but I've cloaked my phone on the system.”

“How close is he?”

“He should be in sight any second now.”

Slade pulls her around, using the stall to block them from the direction Oliver’s GPS says he’s approaching from.

“What now?” She says, grinning.

“You enjoying this?”

“It’s kinda fun,” she says, “and there’s no lives on the line so it doesn’t matter.”

He grins at her and she steps in close and kisses him.

He turns them, pressing her between his body and the wooden stall.

They make-out like teenagers for a few minutes. Then her phone vibrates in her hand.

It's a text.

Slade nuzzles her neck as she lifts the cellphone up to read it.

“He’s texting me,” she says, and Slade turns in her arms so they can both see the screen. 

_Where are you Felicity?_

She grins and types back one-handed.

_On a date_

Slade spots a large crowd walking past them.

“Get close to them,” he says, “use them for cover and I’ll meet you by the gate.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

Her phone vibrates again.

_this isn't funny Felicity_

Felicity makes sure her hair is hidden by the hat then steps out, placing the group of teens between her and Oliver’s GPS signal. 

She looks back to Slade and he grins at her. In the cap and sunglasses (and just where did he gets those from?) he looks a lot less dangerous, like he could just be any other Starling City-ite out for a stroll in the sunshine. 

Felicity ambles along, keeping pace with the group and watching the GPS display. Oliver doesn't seem to be moving. She likes the idea they may have flummoxed him. 

She pulls Slade’s shirt a little tighter around her and breathes in the smell of him. It seems very male, and she thinks how long it’s been since she wore a man’s clothes. 

Too long.

Lunch had been going so well, and even the unexpected big brother presence of Oliver and Diggle isn’t enough to dampen her spirits. In fact, she’s having a better time than ever.

Luckily the crowd she’s walking with seem to have the same destination in mind that she does - the exit gate to North street. They don’t really seem to have noticed her, so this part of their ’escape’ is going really well.

Not two seconds after she thinks that a hand comes down on her shoulder and she reacts, stepping sideways and striking out, just like Diggle has drilled into her.

Oliver catches her hand and blinks.

“You’re getting faster,” he says, as if he hasn't just stalked her through a park.

“What are you doing here?” She says, exasperated. 

“You need to have better awareness of your surroundings,” he says. “GPS isn't everything.”

She looks down at her phone and sure enough his GPS signal is back in the trees.

“You ditched your phone,” she realises.

He shrugs.

“Obviously you were tracking me.”

“I was tracking you?” She says, incredulous. “You followed me on my date! You and Diggle both. Do you not see how that’s a tiny bit intrusive?”

“We were worried.”

“About what? He’s your friend!”

Oliver doesn't say anything but his jaw is set in his most stubborn expression.

“He sewed you up last night,” she hisses at him, tying to keep her voice down. “He carried you back with him. And I have no idea what went down on that island but I’m pretty sure he’s saved your life before.”

“Many times.”

“So why are you here?”

“I don't trust him.”

Felicity throws up her hands in frustration.

“Why don't you trust him?” She says, “or is it me you don't trust? Because I think he already knows the big secret about you so I don't know what else it is you think I might reveal!”

Oliver glances around. Their argument is staring to draw curious glances. She can see him noting reactions, trying to see if anyone has realised who he is.

“You need to go get that cell phone,” she says, folding her arms, “I spent too long on those apps to have to start over again and the locking system isn't as secure as I'd like.”

“Fine,” he says. “But you’re coming with me.” He curls a hand around her elbow and pushes her back along the path. She shrugs him off and walks.

She looks around but she doesn’t see Slade. But then, she suspects she wouldn't see him if he didn't want to be seen. She’s sure he’s aware of this turn of events. She wonders what he thinks of it.

She looks at Oliver, walking beside her. Unlike Slade who has spent the afternoon amused and relaxed, even as they ran and hid, Oliver is practically vibrating with tension.

His hands are balled into fists at his sides and the hood of his jacket is up. On this warm, sunny day he looks odd, and he’s drawing attention.

“What is wrong with you?” 

“What?” He says.

“Even I can see that something is wrong,” she says. "Put your hood down. I feel like I'm about to be mugged.”

Oliver instantly pushes the material back from his face. 

“Better?”

“A bit.”

He’s looking at her with a strange expression.

“Where’d you get the hat?”

“Over there,” she says, gesturing idly. She suddenly realises there’s no need for her to wear it anymore so she pulls it off her head and shakes her hair out, letting the curls fall back down around her shoulders. 

She looks up to find Oliver staring at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Oliver,” she sighs, “you need to tell me why you’re here.”

“Felicity.”

“No,” she says, “seriously. If you don't think a friend of yours should date someone you tell them that, you don’t stalk them. If there is a real legitimate reason why I shouldn't have lunch with Slade you need to tell me.”

Oliver sets his jaw.

“He’s dangerous.”

“So are you,” she says, “so’s John.”

“No, it’s different. We’re different.” He says. “I don't want to see you hurt.”

“Hurt how?”

“I don't know,” he says more than a little petulantly. “Just hurt.”

They reach the wooden fence and Felicity stops, waiting for Oliver to climb over and retrieve the phone. 

She thinks about the conversation she overheard in the club. Apparently it was about her.

He leans forward, resting his hands on the top of the fence but he doesn’t climb over. She thinks of climbing this fence with Slade, how he took her by the waist and lifted her as if she weighed nothing.

She has no doubt Oliver could do exactly the same. If he wanted to.

“Oliver,” she says, “I'm a big girl. I don't need you to protect me.”

He mumbles something. She can't make out a word of it.

“What?”

Oliver signs and turns. His face is drawn, his brow furrowed.

“What if I want to protect you?”

“Protect me from what?”

“Everything,” he says, stepping away from the fence towards her. “I want to protect you from everything.”

He pauses, as if considering.

“He kissed you,” he says, “I didn't like it.”

“You’re jealous,” she says, shocked, despite everything.

“I'm jealous,” he admits.

He takes another step towards her and she doesn't move and she doesn't speak and she doesn't really understand what is happening here until he lifts one hand and strokes her cheek.

“Oliver,” she says, completely shocked.

“Felicity,” he says.

He’s standing so close that she can feel his breath on the skin of her face. His hand on her cheek seems to burn her skin, his eyes have darkened and his lips are so close.

“Why now?” She has to know.

“I don't want him to kiss you,” Oliver says softly. “When I saw him kiss you...it felt wrong. I want to be the man who kisses you.”

She bites her lip.

“I don't know what to say.”

“Say I can kiss you.”

“I’m on a date.”

“Say that doesn’t matter.”

“Oliver.”

“Felicity.”

“Oliver,” she says and her voice cracks and suddenly he’s kissing her.

He has her wrapped up in his arms and he’s lifting her up off of the ground and her head is swimming, singing, everything is color and light and the touch of him and the taste of him and it’s incredible.

Her arms go around his neck and his hand is in her hair and she gasps into his mouth and he's lifting her, turning her and pressing her into the fence, grinding against her.

Just like Slade did.

Her eyes fly open and she pushes him away and he moves instantly, stepping back, giving her space.

She looks at him and she looks past him and Slade is standing there with no expression on his face at all.

And she shakes her head because she’s suddenly become the sort of person she never wanted to be, never thought she could be, and she hates herself for it so much.

So she turns and runs.


	6. Conversations

She runs.

And they don’t follow.

When she pauses by the lake, one hand on the back of a bench for support as she drags in air in big gulps, she realises she had been expecting at least one of them to follow her. 

And neither of them did.

“Felicity?”

Felicity looks up, through what she realises are now tears, to see Diggle hovering nearby.

“Felicity, are you okay?”

She pulls off her glasses and pinches her nose. She doesn't want to cry over this, she wants to be angry. But the day had been going so well and she’s so confused and lost. She hates this.

“Felicity,” Diggle’s voice is harder now, “Did he hurt you?”

“Yes,” she says, “but not the he you mean. Or in the way you mean.”

Diggle steps in, offering her a comforting hand. She knows it's a comforting hand and that there’s no ulterior motive here. She realises that’s she going to end up mentally replaying all of her memories of Oliver trying to figure out where the friendship stopped and something else began.

Does she want the something else?

She doesn’t know.

She never really thought it was an option.

“Felicity,” Diggle says, and she can't help but note that he’s using her name an awful lot today. “What happened?”

“Oliver,” she says, “Oliver Queen happened. I was having a really great day, a really great date, and then Oliver -” 

The tears come back, full force.

“Okay,” Diggle says, “I’m taking you home.”

He loops a friendly arm around her shoulders, allowing her to keep her head down and her face hidden as he guides her out of the park.

He leads her to the car he drives for Oliver. She refuses to ride in the backseat so he holds open the passenger side door and she curls herself into the large leather seats, feeling small and lost.

Diggle drives in silence. 

She's grateful for that. 

Her tears are dry now but her eyes sting. She’s always hated how easily she tears up, and today is no exception to that rule. She's so frustrated, so angry with herself. She shouldn't have kissed Oliver, should have pushed him away, said “no” before it reached that point.

But she just hadn't been able to believe it was actually happening.

She thinks of laughing with Slade, eating hotdogs and ice cream. She's still wearing his shirt and she hunches her shoulders up, smelling the soft male smell of the fabric.

And Oliver, looking at her like she never thought he would. 

Even though, now that she knows, hindsight is 20:20 and she remembers him feeding her tiramisu, rubbing his nose against hers while high as a kite.

She should have known, but she never thought Oliver Queen would ever think of her like that. She doesn’t like to think in terms of romantic leagues but if she has to, he’s so far out of hers as to be on the moon.

Though kissing a girl while she’s on a date with another guy is skeavy to say the least. He’s got to lose points for that. 

Felicity stares out of the window at the passing city blocks.

“Why were you there John?” She asks. “In the park.”

“Oliver was worried about you.”

“So call,” she says, “text. But follow?”

“He's had me tailing Wilson since he got here,” Diggle admits.

Slade was right, then.

“Why?”

“Wilson's a dangerous man,” Diggle says, “we wanted to be sure he was here for the reasons he said.”

“And?”

“Seems legit,” Diggle shrugs. “So far at least.”

“And today?”

“He was going to follow you anyway,” Diggle sighs. “I couldn't talk him out of it. I thought it would be better if I was there too.”

Felicity stares out of the window.

“He kissed me,” she admits. 

“Wilson?”

“Oliver. And Slade.” Felicity sighs, “they both kissed me. At different times. Not the same time or anything.” She waves that thought away. “And I kissed them both back. I’m a terrible person.”

“No you're not,” Diggle says.

“I am.”

She lets her head thump back against the head rest.

“How long?” 

“What?” He asks.

“How long has Oliver liked me?”

Diggle smiles ruefully.

“I don't know,” he admits. “I don't think even he knows.”

“Why now? Why bring it up now?”

“Felicity,” Diggle says, not unkindly, “I’m not making excuses for the man, but you know he has the worst impulse control. He can shoot the wings off a fly but that doesn't mean he’s got a lick of sense in that head of his.”

“He could have just told me.” She says. “Could have asked me out.” Like Slade did. “Why go to all this trouble? Why couldn’t he be honest with me?”

“For Oliver to be honest with you,” Diggle says in his oh so perceptive way, “he’d have to be honest with himself first.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “He sucks.”

Diggle chuckles.

“You and me John,” she says, letting all of her emotional exhaustion show in her voice, “let’s run away together and leave this whole thing behind us.”

“Can Carly come?”

“Of course, we three can eat mangoes and drink coconut milk by the beach. The simple life.”

“You know how I feel about mangoes.”

“Yes I do.”

But there’s no weight to their words. It's all just for show.

Diggle pulls the car up outside her apartment building.

“Do you want me to come in?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I want you to hit Oliver Queen for me. Or at least glare at him.”

“I promise my sternest look.”

“Can you keep him away from me tonight?” She says. “I need to think.”

“I’ll try,” Diggle shrugs, “but there’s a limit to what I can promise in that regard.”

“I know,” she says. 

She opens the car door and climbs out.

“Felicity,” Diggle calls and she ducks her head down to see him. “If you need someone to talk to...”

“I'm fine,” she says.

“I know,” he nods.

He looks away considering. 

“You should know,” he says after a second, “Slade Wilson is staying at the hotel on sixth.”

Felicity blinks.

“The one with the neon sign?”

“Yeah. Hotel Starling.”

She blinks at him.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“If you’re making a decision,” he says, “you need all of the information available.”

“You think I should go to Slade?”

“No. I think you should think about what you want.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't want to see you hurt Felicity, and Oliver is my brother; I'll fight by his side and follow him into hell. But he's about as damaged as they come.”

“And Slade's not?”

“Hell no, Wilson’s no picnic either.”

“I don't understand.”

“This is Oliver's city,” Diggle says. “At some point tonight, no matter what I do, he's going to turn up at your door. Or window. Slade doesn't know where you live.”

Felicity pauses, considering.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says.

“You know where I am.”

She closes the car door and Diggle pulls away. She watches the vehicle until it turns the corner at the next block. Then she goes inside.

* * *

Oliver is sitting on her couch.

She stares at him.

“Seriously?” She says. “Seriously?”

He jumps up, rubs his hands on his jeans. If she didn’t know better she’d think he was nervous. Or maybe he is nervous, since obviously she doesn't know him as well as she thought. 

“John drove me home,” she says. “I left you in the park. How the hell did you beat me home? We were in a car.”

“Felicity.” He steps towards her.

“No, Oliver,” she says, holding up a hand. “You’re staying over there. Minimum six feet safe distance.”

He blinks at her.

“You think I’d hurt you?”

“No,” she snaps, “I think you’ll tempt me, and then I'll hit you with whatever heavy object is to hand. Six feet. Promise me.”

He purses his lips.

“I promise.”

“Okay,” she says and sinks into her reading armchair. It's her favorite spot in her apartment. She spends hours in this chair reading her favourite books, curled up under a blanket. Or she did until her off hours became entirely full of him. Not much time for books anymore. “Speak.”

He quirks an eyebrow at her but she refuses to be charmed.

“Why?” She says, tiredly. “Why now?”

“I...” He spreads his hands wide helplessly, “I wanted to.”

She shakes her head. It's all about him. Of course.

“Where’s Slade?” 

“I don't know,” he admits. “I didn’t stop to talk to him.”

“I was on a date,” she says, pointedly, “with him.”

“I know.”

“Are you sorry?”

“What?” He says, seemingly caught by surprise. “Sorry? No.”

She sighs.

“You can't just do this Oliver,” she explains. “How long have I been in your life? Months? And the second someone shows a spec of interest in me, that's the moment you decide to make a play? You’re like a kid with a toy.”

“Felicity.”

“This is not how you do things.”

He blinks.

“It’s how I've always done things.”

She looks at him, at the confusion on his face and the fact that he genuinely doesn’t see this the same way she does. 

“This is how you do things? This what you do? The rich really are different.”

Oliver blinks.

“I don't understand,” he says.

“Oh this explains so much,” she says, dropping her head into her hands.

“Felicity?”

“You can't just go around taking what you want,” she says, “the world is full of other people. People who get hurt.”

“I know.”

“I don't think you do,” she says. “Look, when did you decide to kiss me?”

Oliver sets his jaw and looks away.

“It was when you saw me kiss Slade, right?” He doesn’t answer so she presses on. “And something in you went ’No! Mine!’ didn’t it? And so you came to claim what was yours.”

She hears her own voice turn bitter and she can't help it.

“Felicity-”

“Except,” she interrupts, “I don't belong to you. And just because Oliver Queen has never had to follow the rules doesn't give you the right-”

“It wasn't the kiss.”

She blinks. Oliver is staring at the floor, decidedly not looking at her.

“What?”

“It wasn't the kiss. It was the shirt.”

She looks down at the shirt she’s still wearing.

“The shirt? Slade's shirt?”

“I don't think you’re mine,” he says, and he’s looking at her now, those blue eyes of his fixed on hers, “but I want you to be.”

“You could have told me.”

“I'm telling you now.”

“I was on a date, Oliver. There's a time and a place. That wasn't it.”

“Are you,” he says looking at his hands, “are you saying ’no’?”

“No,” she says. “I'm not. I just didn't expect this. Didn't expect you to ever... I made peace a long time ago I wasn't going to be this to you and now I feel like I should be thrilled but instead I'm so angry at you.”

“All my girlfriends get angry at me,” he smiles.

“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” she snaps.

He winces and looks away.

“If you don't want me...” He says and she fixes him with an incredulous glare.

“Has anyone ever not wanted you?” She says, then immediately adds, “No, hold on, that's the kind of destructive self-belief that leads to stalking people on their dates and then kissing them!”

“You’re really upset,” he says. It's not a realisation, more that he’s trying to get the facts straight.

“You kissed me, Oliver,” she says as reasonably as she can, “and I kissed you back, but I was on a date with someone else. You made me into a cheater. I've never cheated on anyone in my life.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding genuinely chagrined. 

“Okay,” she says, “yes, that was what I wanted to hear.”

“I'm not sorry for kissing you,” he clarifies, “I'm sorry for the timing.”

“Yes,” she says, “that is entirely my point.”

“So,” he says slowly, “just so I'm clear, you did want to kiss me?”

“Yes, Oliver.”

“Good,” he says and stands up.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm going to kiss you,” he says, as if he really hasn't heard a word she’s said.

“No, you're not.” She shakes her head. “If you want to see what this is, you’re going to ask me out and hope that I say yes.”

“Okay,” he’s confused again but is seemingly willing to let her take the lead here. “Felicity, would you have dinner with me?”

“Yes, Oliver, I would like that.”

“Tonight?”

“No,” she says, “not tonight. Tomorrow or the next day.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “But why not tonight?”

“Because technically, right now, I'm still on a date with another man.”

Oliver scowls.

“Go home,” she says, “do not pick a fight with Slade. I’m taking the night off. I'll come by the club tomorrow to hack Bennini for you.”

“Are you,” he says, then pauses. “Are you going to spend tonight with Slade?”

“Not that it's any of your business,” she says, “but no. Though I do have to find him and apologise.”

Oliver’s scowl deepens.

“And apparently,” she says, finally owning up to herself how she wants this to be, “I have to thank him for lunch and tell him I can't see him anymore.”

“Really?” Oliver says. All trace of the scowl is suddenly gone and he looks young and happy in a way she's only ever seen a few glimpses off before.

“Really.”

“Felicity!” He crows, and he’s off the sofa and swinging her around in the air. She shrieks, then giggles and he lifts her up and buries his face in her neck, holding her so her feet hang suspended six inches off of the ground. 

“Oliver!” She objects, but she’s laughing. “Oliver, put me down.”

He does so, leaning down to press his forehead against hers.

There’s a spark of chemistry, and she has to steady her breathing and step back. No point in undermining everything she’s just said.

Oliver lets go of her and drops his hands to his side. He’s practically vibrating, with giddiness.

“I'm sorry for breaking minimum safe distance,” he says and she can hear the tease in his tone.

“No, you’re not.” She smiles.

“No, I’m not,” he admits with a grin, “but I’ll make it up to you.”

“Okay,” she says, “dinner, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

“But now you have to go.”

“Okay,” he says, “just do one thing for me?”

“Maybe,” she says, “what is it?”

“Take off his shirt.”

She glances down at the shirt in question.

“This really bothers you?” She asks.

“It really bothers me.”

“Okay,” she slides the shirt down her arms, and lays it over the arm of her chair.

“Much better,” he says and his eyes have gone dark and he’s leaning in and it’s an effort of will to slam her palm against his chest.

“Okay,” he says, taking the hint and stepping back.

He walks to the door and she doesn’t follow him. She's honesty not sure she could say no to another kiss at this point.

“Felicity?”

“Oliver?”

“Tomorrow,” he says softy, “on our date. Will you wear your hair down for me?”

His eyes are fixed on hers and the look on his face makes her knees weak. It's hard to keep her voice level when she replies.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, and he’s gone. Out the door in a rush of speed and grace. The same way he does everything.

Felicity sinks down into her armchair.

Slade’s shirt is right there and she lets her fingertips stroke over the material.

If that conversation was hard, this one is going to be even harder.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Felicity looks up, her gaze drawn to the window across the room.

There’s someone there.

She glances at the door but Oliver’s only been gone for a minute. Not nearly enough time has passed for him to have gone all the way down to the street and then climbed up her building again.

Warily, she crosses the room, trying to get a line of sight on the window without getting too close.

She blinks when she spies who awaits her.

Slade.

She walks across and unlatches the window.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, “that looked intense.”

“You saw?” She says, cringing.

“I saw,” he admits, “but then I also saw it coming the second I met you.”

He gives her a rueful smile. 

“I could see he liked you,” he shrugs, “but you said there wasn’t anything there and I couldn't not try.”

“I didn't know there was anything.” She says apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, “it was a nice walk but we both knew I wasn’t staying. This is probably for the best.”

“I had a really great time Slade,” she says, “I’m sorry about how it ended.”

“No worries,” he says and grins, “but you know, if you ever get tired of Richie Rich there...”

“Yeah,” she says. “Thanks. Thank you.” She ducks her head. Slade has made this dreaded conversation easy. Even sweet.

“Felicity Smoak,” he says, stepping in close and tilting her chin up to look at him. “How about one for the road?”

She smiles and he gently kisses her. It's like their first kiss back in the basement, sweet with the promise of more and no expectations at all.

Neither of them deepen it and it ends, just as it began, softly.

She steps back, reaching for his shirt.

“Thanks for lending me this,” she says, offering the cloth back to him.

“We’ll make a spy of you yet,” he grins. “But don’t listen too closely to any advice from that boy of yours. I was able to tail him all the way here. Amateur hour. He needs to watch his back more.”

“I'll let him know.”

Slade nods and crosses back to the window.

“It was fun,” he says, crouched on the frame.

“It was,” she agrees.

“Think of me fondly,” he smiles.

“I will.”

And he’s gone.

Felicity closes the window behind him and wonders just when it was her life became this complicated.

It was day she met Oliver Queen, she realises.

And so she can't regret that at all.


	7. Pizza

Felicity walks down the stairs into the club basement the next day to the familiar sounds of flesh-on-flesh impact.

For half a second she wonders if Slade’s calm acceptance of the end of their flirtation has soured in the harsh light of day. Then she turns a corner and sees that Diggle has Oliver in a headlock and Slade is advising from the sidelines.

Oliver and Slade are shirtless and Diggle is wearing one of his vests. All three are sweaty. As she watches Slade pours half a bottle of water over his head and pats his face dry with a towel. 

“Wow,” she says, almost involuntarily, and all three turn to look at her. “It’s a shame we have to be all secret identity,” she says, “because I could make so much money charging admission for this.”

Diggle huffs out a laugh and Oliver takes advantage of the older man’s distraction to lift him off his feet and twist out of the headlock. 

“Watch your footing,” Slade remarks as Diggle lands off-balance, and Oliver sends his former bodyguard forward to the mats with a sweep to the back of knees. 

Diggle lands hard and grins.

“I almost had you,” he says, accepting a hand up from Oliver. 

“Almost,” Oliver acknowledges. He’s looking at Felicity though and she feels herself blush. Who knew he could have that effect on her with just a look?

“Almost doesn’t mean shit,” Slade says, but there’s no aggression. “You had the lock but you didn't pursue the move.”

“I didn’t want to kill him,” Diggle says, retrieving his own bottle of water and throwing a second one to Oliver.

“You could have choked him out.”

“It's a risky move for training,” Diggle says, “I like to keep those for when he’s actively pissing me off.”

Slade laughs, low and guttural and Felicity finds her attention being drawn his way.

He meets her eye and grins. Then winks.

She feels her cheeks flush again and turns her back on them hurriedly, walking over to the computer desk. 

“Slade,” she hears Oliver say, “come on, you and me.”

“Eager to end up on the floor again, kid?”

“It's my turn to put you there.”

Felicity doesn’t turn - doesn’t look - but if she triggers the internal security cameras to record no one can blame her. After all Oliver might want to review the footage later, see if there’s anything he can improve upon. Or something. 

“Hey.”

Felicity jumps, then turns to grin up at Diggle, leaning against her desk in the same way that Slade has spent most of the last week doing.

“Hey yourself.”

“I take it things worked out,” Diggle prompts.

“You could say that.”

Diggle chuckles.

“When I got here this morning,” he says, pointedly, “they were going at each other with the wooden kendo swords.”

A mental image of shirtless Oliver and shirtless Slade fighting with swords pops into her brain and she has to catch her breath.

“Are they okay?” She asks after she manages to push the thought away. “No lasting damage?”

“Bumps and bruises,” Diggle observes, “Slade seems pretty zen. Oliver has issues but he’s working through them.”

“This is working through them?” She raises an eyebrow.

“This is for him.” Diggle says wryly. “How about you?”

“We’re going out for dinner,” she says, purposely focussing her attention on the computer in front of her and not the man beside her.

“Really?” 

“Yes. Tonight.”

“And yet you’re here?”

“There’s work to do,” she says. Then pauses. “Unless you think they’re more likely to kill each other if I'm here?”

Diggle snorts and doesn’t answer.

“I'm taking another run at Bennini’s system,” she says, “I promised Oliver I would.”

“Okay,” Diggle nods. “You want a drink?”

“I'm fine,” she says, then pulls on her headphones to block out the rest of the room and prepares to lose herself in the code.

* * *

Diggle literally waves a slice of pizza in front of her face sometime around hour three of her infiltration of Bennini’s system and she almost falls out of her chair.

“Pizza?” He says with a grin and she mock scowls at him.

“You could have just asked,” she mutters.

“I did,” Diggle says, “several times.”

Felicity would complain more but her stomach chooses that moment to rumble loudly and she makes grabby hands at the pizza slice that Diggle holds just slightly out of reach.

“What’s the magic word?” Diggle teases her.

“Give me that slice or I’ll destroy your credit rating.”

“Close enough,” he grins and hands it over.

Felicity bites into the deep pan vegetable pizza and lets out a happy little sigh. She honestly hadn’t realised how hungry she was.

“Now if we’ve got some Mountain Dew I can call this a proper flashback to coding in college,” she says between bites. “Or some diet Dr Pepper. That works too.”

“I can’t promise anything on the soda front,” Diggle says, “but there’s three whole pies upstairs in the club. Oliver ordered in.”

“I am so there,” she says and logs off of the system. 

“So where is this dinner happening?” Diggle asks.

“You worrying about me?” Felicity says.

“Maybe,” Diggle says. “Remember, I saw you yesterday.”

“I know,” she says.

“You were upset.”

“I was in shock.”

“And angry.”

“And angry,” she agrees. “But it’s Oliver, you know? If there's anyone I want to kiss and slap at the same time, it's him.”

Diggle levels a penetrating look at her.

“You are not my father,” she says, mostly in jest.

“No, I'm not.”

“And this is just dinner.”

Diggle scoffs.

“It's just dinner,” she insists.

“Sure,” he says, “just be careful. I don't want to see you hurt.”

“I will,” but even as she says it she knows it might already be too late for her. Her long standing crush on Oliver was only ignorable when there was no chance he would reciprocate.

Now that she’s kissed him, now that he’s kissed her, a large part of her heart is already committed.

She knows Diggle knows all and sees all, but she really had hoped she’d been able to keep her feelings better hidden.

“Should you be saying this to him?” She says, trying to bluff it out. “Of the two of us I’m pretty sure I’m the only one not to be dumped by the last two people I dated.”

Diggle opens the electronic lock on the door to main part of the club and ushers her through. 

“It's not that simple,” he says, “and you know that.”

“Maybe we should make it exactly that simple then.” She says and crosses to where Oliver and Slade are eating pizza from open boxes on the bar. If she walks fast she tells herself it's because she’s hungry and not because she’s avoiding Diggle’s concern.

“You were too lazy to bring the food downstairs?” She asks.

“We thought you needed a break,” Oliver says.

“We?” She says, looking from him to Slade, who shrugs.

“These two are like old women,” he says, “always worrying.”

Felicity smiles at him. This genuinely isn't awkward at all. She should have known it wouldn't be.

“So how’s it going?” Slade asks, “are you in?”

“Yes,” she says, “and I've pulled off lots of data but I haven't found anything in it yet. At least nothing deifinitive.”

“Keep looking,” Oliver says.

She nods. 

“How’s the shoulder?”

He rotates his arm and doesn’t wince.

“Improving.”

Behind him Slade rolls his eyes.

“If this is your usual level of conversation?” Slade says, “it’s no wonder it took me coming to town for you to step up.”

Felicity flushes and Oliver glares.

Diggle chuckles softly.

“Where are you taking her then?” Slade says.

“What?”

“On your date,” Slade says, “because hot dogs in the park, that's hard to top.”

Oliver sets his jaw and Felicity can't help but laugh.

She picks up a slice of pizza and takes a bite.

Oliver hovers by her shoulder, not talking. She looks up and is unsurprised to see he’s stony-faced. He always takes things so seriously.

She reaches out for his arm and squeezes it.

He looks down at her, and she can’t quite read his expression so she just smiles and carries on eating her pizza.

“One thing I did find is that Bennini has some suspicious financial transactions,” she says, “several million dollars unaccounted for. I think he’s been lining his pockets.”

“That could be leverage,” Diggle says. “Something to use.”

“Maybe.”

“And there’s some strange dealings with a Purgatory Plc based out of Hong Kong,” Felicity adds. 

Slade looks at Oliver.

“Lian Yu.”

“Liam who?” Felicity asks.

“Lian Yu,” Oliver repeats, “it means purgatory. It’s the name of the island where Slade and I...met.”

“Oh,” Felicity says, “it has a name. I didn’t know.”

“I don't like talking about it,” Oliver says.

“What’s to like?” Slade comments, “the accommodation was severely lacking and the food was not up to scratch. All in all I’d have to say I wouldn't visit again.”

Felicity smiles and she hears Diggle chuckle, but Oliver just turns his back and she can see the tension in his shoulders.

“I've got something to check in the office,” he says and walks away without looking at them.

Felicity watches him go then turns to look at Diggle.

“Should I?”

“Yes,” Diggle nods.

She wipes her hands on a paper napkin and goes to follow Oliver. Slade catches her arm as she passes him.

“He has got to let to of the past,” Slade says, “otherwise it’s going to consume him.”

“How did you do it?” She asks.

“I made a choice,” Slade says, “I’m still not sure if it was the right one, but I made it and I have to live with it. The sooner he accepts that about himself the happier he’ll be.”

She nods and he drops her arm.

“It might not be that simple.”

“Then make it that simple.”

Felicity looks past Slade to Diggle, surprised at the coincidence. 

She nods and follows Oliver into the darkness of the club.

* * *

She doesn’t like his office.

It doesn’t feel very him, at least, not in the same way the basement feels like the Hood side of him - all hard lines, straight edges and brute force - and Verdant feels like his playboy persona - style before substance and lots of shadows to hide in.

The office is ostensibly supposed to be where he spends most of his time, but the room is so un-Oliver that she’s continually amazed more people don't see through it.

It’s all black leather and chrome. He has a glass desk, which she's always thought was one of the lesser design innovations in office furniture of the past few decades.

The office also includes a large comfy sofa. 

But she’s not surprised when she walks in to see him sitting on the floor. 

Yup, in this emotional state a chair just will not do.

She walks over and seats herself beside him.

She glances over, noting the closed expression on his face and the way he seems to have locked himself into position. He looks just like he did that time where she found him sitting in the dark in the basement and he told her Walter wasn't dead.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

She shuffles a little closer and lays her head against his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, content to wait and starts planning a new piece of JavaScript in her head to make sure she doesn’t fidget. 

He doesn't move, but there's something in the way he’s sitting that makes her think he might be a tiny bit less rigid now that she’s here. 

After a while she lets her eyes close.

She really is very tired.


	8. The mission

Felicity wakes with a stiff neck.

She's on the sofa in Oliver’s office and it takes her a second to remember why she’s here. 

Oh yes, she came to offer comfort and ended up using him as a pillow instead. Very helpful, she’s sure.

Oliver isn't here so she sits up, pushing back the blanket that someone (Oliver most likely) covered her with.

The door opens and Oliver walks in carrying two mugs.

“Hey,” she says, a little embarrassed.

“You’re awake,” he replies, “Diggle and Slade think they’ve found something in the financial information you pulled out of Bennini’s system.”

“Is that coffee?” She says, eyeing the mugs in his hands.

“Maybe,” he says.

“Oliver Queen,” she says, mock-regally, “if you’re withholding coffee from me you really will regret it.”

He grins and holds a mug out to her.

“My hero,” she says, wrapping her hands around the cup and happily inhaling the delicious smell. Unlike most clubs, Oliver has always made sure that Verdant has good coffee. She's not sure anyone but she, Oliver and Diggle actually drink it but as long as it’s there for them she doesn’t care. Good coffee is good coffee.

“You said you found something?”

“Cash withdrawals every three weeks. Always large round numbers.”

“You think there’s a pay off?”

“I do,” he says, then winces, “and records show Bennini withdrew $500,000 yesterday.”

“So we may have already missed the handover?”

“Maybe,” Oliver says, “but GPS tracking on his cell and his lieutenants’ show no meetings outside of the building last night.”

“So it could be tonight?”

“Yes.”

She eyes him, she might be newly woken up but the coffee is helping and it's obvious something’s bothering him.

“So what's the problem?”

“Tonight...”

“Tonight?”

“Our date?” He says, looking a little perturbed that he has to explain it.

“Rain check,” she says easily. 

“What?”

“We can rain check,” she smiles. “Oliver, I know better than anyone how you spend your nights. I think tracking down who the half million dollar payment from a corrupt businessman is going to kinda trumps our dinner.”

He blinks at her.

“You’re not mad?”

“No,” she says, “I knew what dating you would be like when I said yes.”

He smiles suddenly and it’s like the sun has come up, the intensity of his surprise and happiness is so bright.

“Where,” he says, reaching out to cup her cheek. “Where did you come from?”

“IT,” she says, easily, “but don't think you’re off the hook there, buster. Every time you rain check the date has to become exponentially more impressive as a result.”

“It will,” he grins.

“Okay,” she says, draining the last of the coffee from the mug. “Show me what you found in the system.”

* * *

She hacks into the historical traffic camera records for the few days following the last few high value withdrawals and narrows the possible handover locations down to two.

“The docks or the stadium?”

“It has to be the docks,” Diggle says, “multiple ways in and out, relatively little security, no cameras. Why use the stadium? There’s no strategic advantage there.”

“The docks are kinda obvious,” Felicity says, “how many deals have you broken up at the docks? They have to know it’s prime Hood territory.”

“I have territory?”

“You know what I mean.”

Oliver grins.

“All the same,” he says, “the docks seem like the more likely meeting ground.”

“Maybe,” she says.

“Occam’s razor,” Diggle points out.

“Fine.”

“Still,” Oliver says, “maybe we should split up. Diggle, you and Felicity take the stadium. Slade and I will take the docks.”

Diggle sends her a look and she pretends it’s not because he’s just been tasked with babysitting.

“You sure this is your best allocation of resources?” Slade asks.

“Yes,” Oliver says looking at them each in turn.

Felicity meets Diggle’s gaze and says nothing.

* * *

“How do you feel,” she says, “about being stuck with me?”

She’s up in one of the luxury boxes in the stadium, a glass-walled room so high up that her vertigo keeps being triggered every time she looks out of the window.

“I'm not stuck with you,” Diggle says over the radio receiver in her ear.

“Liar.”

“I’m not,” Diggle says, “did you ever think Oliver might not trust Slade with either of us?”

Felicity blinks. 

“Are we really still on that?” She says, “has he not proved himself by now?”

“Because he kissed you?” Diggle says pointedly.

“No!” Felicity objects, “because you’ve been following him since he came to town and you haven't seen anything suspicious.”

“He knew I was following him,” Diggle says in her ear, “I never had the drop on Wilson, not once.”

“You don’t know that,” she says, even though Slade had pretty much told her the same.

“He’s former special forces,” Diggle says, “I know when I'm outmatched.”

“You think so?” She ponders, “is Oliver outmatched?”

“I don't know,” Diggle says, “Oliver said Slade trained him, but it's not unheard of for a student to surpass their teacher."

“Huh,” she says, then her eye is caught by something on her screen. “Oh.”

“Oh? Oh, what?”

“Oh I think I was right about X marking the spot,” she says. “I've got movement on the field. Where are you?”

“South parking structure,” Diggle says. She hears his breath change as he starts to run. “I'm on my way.”

Felicity peers out of the window. From this height everyone on the field looks like ants. She can barely make out the figures on the grass.

“I think I see two groups,” she says and brings up the on-field cameras to confirm. They’re not infrared and there’s barely any light out there with the spot lights off but she can just about make it out. “Yup,” she confirms, “two groups. Five or six in each. I’m calling Oliver.”

“Copy.” 

Felicity switches channels on the radio and hears Oliver say:

“-none of your business.”

“Oliver,” she interrupts, “we’ve got movement at the Stadium. Two groups meeting on the field.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Slade says.

“I never said they weren’t stupid criminals,” Felicity says, “but they’re here. I have a line of sight but it’s way distant and John is making his way over from the parking lot to the south. We need you.”

“On our way,” Oliver says, “and Felicity, don’t be reckless.”

“Whose reckless?” She says but she’s already transferred the security cam feed to her tablet and shut the laptop so she can be mobile.

She switches back to the radio channel she and Diggle were on to let him know to transfer over to the same channel as Oliver and Slade. 

She’s not a fool. She’s not going down there. Or at least, not all the way down there. Instead, keeping one eye on the security footage steaming on her tablet, she heads for the stairs.

There's a commentator box three floors down that should suit her purposes.

She moves down the staircase as quietly as she can but she can’t help but wince at how loud her footsteps sound as they echo back to her.

Outside the commentary box she has to hook her tablet up to hack the electronic lock but that only takes her away from the footage for 15 seconds.

And then she’s in. This room is full of screens so she considers turning the power on to take advantage of the available gear but that might draw attention. She sticks with the tablet and laptop, watching security camera footage of the field on one while trying to identify the men at the meet on the other. 

“Okay,” Felicity says into the radio, “Bennini’s there, along with three known lieutenants and a big guy in a mask.”

“Red and black mask?” Slade asks. “Swords?”

Felicity peers at the footage, then leans over the desk to look down at the field. She can't quite make out colours.

“I can't swear it’s red,” she says, “but I can see the swords.”

“Looky here,” Slade says, “you’ve got a second chance at the guy, kid.”

“I’m not interested in him,” Oliver says, “just Bennini and whoever he’s meeting with.”

“I'm not getting ID on the other group,” Felicity says, “they’ve got their backs to me and there’s too many shadows for the footage to be clear.”

“Pros,” Slade grunts.

“Then why choose here for the handoff?” Diggle says, “the docks make a lot more sense.”

“They might not all be professionals,” Felicity says. “Bennini looks like he’s out of his depth.”

“If he’s not now, he will be soon,” Oliver says, “I've got the angle. Slade.”

“Aye.”

“Diggle?”

“Say the word.”

“Felicity?”

“I’m not on the field and anywhere near it,” she says obediently. Then she lifts herself up to sit on the desk because the footage is grainy and this she wants to see with her own eyes. The room is dark and at least thirty feet up. No one is going to be able to see her.

“Go,” Oliver says and almost before she hears the word there’s already an arrow in the shiny metal suitcase that obviously contains the payoff. A second shaft hits a second later, tearing the case from Bennini’s hand and pinning it to the grass. 

The men around Bennini seem to panic, looking around them. Bennini himself stares at the impaled case as if he can’t quite believe it.

The masked man with the swords looks at the arrows, tilts his head and turns to where she’s pretty sure Oliver is. He draws his swords - both of them - and the edges of the blades seem to gleam despite the darkness. 

The other side of the payoff already have guns out and are moving towards the tunnel in a very precise way that suggests they have military training.

She hears gun shots and two of the military-esque crew drop, holding their shoulders. That’ll be Diggle then.

The masked swordsman starts to run and she fears for Oliver - a bow is one thing but these are swords - and then Slade is there, catching one of the blades on a sword of his own and deflecting the second with a short knife.

Bennini’s lieutenants are suddenly down and looking closely Felicity can see arrows stuck in shoulders and knees. She smiles inwardly that Oliver is embracing non-fatal shots, then her attention is captured by the man himself, vaulting down from the stands to confront Bennini.

“Giorgio Bennini,” she hears Oliver rumble through the Hood’s voice modulator, “you have failed this city.”

Bennini’s answer is lost to radio crackle, but Felicity can see Oliver standing, bow drawn over his kneeling, gibbering target.

“Shit,” Diggle says, “I missed one.”

Turning Felicity can see the running man disappear into the tunnel and she queues up the security cameras, watching as he runs down corridors, stairwells and finally across the concrete parking lot to a waiting SUV.

“Got him on camera,” she says, “and I have a license plate.”

She looks back out at the field in time to see Oliver knock Bennini out with a punch.

“Little help here,” Slade grunts.

She turns to see him retreating from the masked swordsman. Then suddenly there’s an arrow in the guy’s shoulder and Oliver readies a second, stepping closer.

The swordsman seems to throw up his arms in frustration, hits out with one final thrust that Slade has to throw himself backwards to avoid and suddenly leaps up, somersaulting over the wall into the stands.

“Did you hear what he said?” Slade asks, sitting up and sounding almost impressed.

“No,” Oliver replies. “You hurt?”

“A few scratches,” Slade admits, “nothing that will need stitches.” He looks after the masked swordsman, whose already out of sight. “Gotta admit he was kinda funny.”

Felicity’s laptop pings at her and she pulls up the alert.

“Police have been called,” she says, “they’re seven minutes out.”

“Time to go,” Oliver orders. Felicity closes the laptop but keeps the tablet apps running. She takes a final look at the field to check all.

She sees Slade wrench Oliver’s arrows out of the suitcase full of money and tucks it under one arm.

“Did you get the info?” He asks.

“Hong Kong,” Oliver says.

“That's where I'm going next then,” Slade nods. “Maybe I'll use this,” he gestures at the case, “to buy a first class ticket.”

Felicity grins and exits the commentary booth, using her sleeve to wipe any fingerprints off of the door handle.

“I’ve never flown first class,” Slade says in her ear.

“You’ll like it,” Oliver says, “they give you actual cutlery.”

“Have you ever not flown first class Oliver?”

“Sometimes he only gets to go Business,” Diggle says, “those are sad days.”

She walks down the stairs and listens to their banter. It’s as if with Slade's acknowledgement that he’ll be leaving Starling City soon Oliver can finally relax. She can see, for the first time, a friendship alongside the brothers in arms connection they share.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Oliver says, sounding happier than he has in months, “my family owns two private jets. First class is like coach to me.”

“Remember to get him to take you to Paris, Felicity,” Slade says.

“I will,” she says, stepping out if the building to find Diggle waiting for her at the SUV. “I will.”

They’re out of the stadium grounds before the police cruisers are within half a mile and Felicity mentally congratulates herself on a job well done.


	9. The plane

Slade leaves on a Tuesday. Felicity hacks into United’s booking database and has him upgraded to first class for the flight to Hong Kong.

Or at least has John Sladen upgraded to first class because Slade claims he never travels anywhere under his own name and has the multiple passports to prove it. 

She doesn’t go to the airport, just kisses him goodbye on the cheek in the club basement and returns to her computers. She doesn’t check to see Oliver’s reaction - Diggle’s amused chuckle tells her all she needs to know on that front.

It's late enough on Tuesday evening that it’s almost Wednesday morning when Oliver comes and leans against the desk beside her.

“You can go home,” he says.

“I just want to finish this.”

She’s compiling as much data as she can on the men who met with Bennini in the stadium. She’s planning to Dropbox it to one of Slade’s many anonymous email accounts. There’s a limit to what she can do to aid him in his quest to find the people behind the group that he and Oliver faced on Lian Yu, but she feels obligated to do what she can.

She sees Oliver move in her peripheral vision and she turns to see his hand dart in and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

She looks up at him and wonders, not for the first time, just what this is. He hasn’t kissed her since the park, he hasn’t rearranged their date since their rain check, but he’s now always here, closer than ever, his hands tapping on or squeezing her shoulders as she types, his fingers sometimes playing with the end of her ponytail.

It’s like when he was drugged all over again - treating her as a touchstone or comfort blanket. As if he has to reassure himself that she’s right here and within reach.

Oliver is looking at her and she is looking at him and suddenly the tension between them seems thick enough to cut. Thick enough to cut into bricks and build a house out of.

“Are you finished?” He says.

Felicity stares at him and can’t for the life of her remember what he is talking about.

“Felicity?” Oliver says, “are you finished whatever it is you're doing?”

He gestures at the computer and she blushes and turns her attention back to the screen. 

“Almost,” she says, not looking at him.

“Almost as in a few more minutes?” He asks, “Or almost as in you may still be here when the sun comes up?”

“The first one.”

“Good,” he says, he pushes off the desk and stands up. “I'll make one more appearance in the club and then I'm taking you home.”

He’s gone before she has a chance to reply. 

Felicity compresses the data she has so far and sends it flying off into the Internet ether. 

She’s always liked watching status bars fill up to completion. Gives her a sense of achievement.

Oliver comes back as she’s shutting down the active part of the system, leaving just the passive monitoring in place. 

Felicity shoulders her bag and stands up.

Now that he’s here she feels suddenly nervous. She’s honestly not sure why.

“You ready?”

She nods and Oliver sweeps his arm, gesturing that she should proceed him.

They walk out. His hand comes up, hovering over her lower back. It never quite touches her but she thinks she can almost feel the heat of it through her clothes.

“So,” she says, “when are we rain checking to?”

“Friday,” he says, “it’s traditional.”

“Okay,” she nods, “Friday works. I’m off work at six.”

“No,” he says and his hand moves, shifting from almost on her back up to scratch behind his ear. “Actually, I, er, I arranged a day off for you.”

She stops and stares at him.

“You said it had to be exponentially more impressive,” he says, in an almost embarassed tone.

“I did,” she says, “but what did you do?”

He shrugs helplessly.

“Oliver,” she repeats, “what did you do? And what did you tell my supervisor to explain why I have the day off?”

“I, er, didn’t,” he says, “Walter did.”

“You brought Walter into this?”

“No,” he says, “I just told him what I was planning and he agreed to arrange a day off.”

“And what are you planning?”

Oliver regards her, a half smile playing on his lips.

“Don’t you want to be surprised?”

“Is it a good surprise?”

“I think so.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms and smiling at him. “Tell me what I need to know so I don't end up wearing a cocktail dress at a ball game.”

His brow furrows.

“You want to go to a ball game?”

“No,” she say, “it's a metaphor. It's like, ’what time are you picking me up?’ ’What shoes should I wear?’”

“Oh,” he says, “seven, I’m picking you up at seven.”

“Then why book the day off?”

He grins.

“Because I'm picking you up at seven on Thursday,” he says, “pack an overnight bag and your favourite dress and wear clothes you like to fly in.”

“Fly?”

“Yes,” he says, grinning widely. “Comfy clothes, layers.”

“You’re flying me somewhere?”

“That would be telling,” he says.

“You just said it!”

“No, I didn’t,” he says, “I told you what to wear. Come on.”

His hand actually rests on her back this time as he escorts her up the stairs and out of the club.

“I’ve never been on a plane,” she says suddenly.

“I know,” he says, “that’s going to change.”

Outside he holds the door open for her to climb into the driver’s seat of her mini, then retrieves his motorcycle helmet from nearby.

“This isn’t so much driving me home,” she says, “as you following me on your bike.”

“Minimum safe distance,” he says and closes the door of her car.

And he keeps it. She can see him in her mirrors all the way home.

* * *

She wakes up Thursday morning and feels a flutter of nerves in her stomach. 

Oliver is picking her up in thirteen hours for their date. Their date which involves a plane. And an overnight bag.

She spent most of the previous evening packing and repacking her bag, finally settling on her favourite green dress and matching heels, pajamas (she did consider a silk nightdress but it felt too forward), make-up bag, underwear, her favorite jeans and a top. She googled enough to decide on leggings and a shirt dress for the plane. She read several articles about the importance of layers and cabin temperatures, about how skin gets dehydrated and she should drink water not alcohol. She feels prepared.

Clothing wise at least.

She’s on edge the whole day at work, her mind fast forwarding to the evening as she digs into what are admittedly very easy to solve system problems. She considers herself lucky that nothing more complex than a few missing files comes up - she’s not sure she’d have the mental space left to deal with it.

She excuses herself from the office at five and rushes home to shower. She could have just met him straight from work but there is a day’s worth of sweat and grime on her skin and she wants to look and feel her best for him. 

She’s ready half an hour early and she tries to make herself relax; tries reading a book, checking her email, scrolling through TV tropes and tumblr in search of distraction.

Nothing works.

There’s a knock on her door exactly at seven and she practically bounces across the apartment to open it.

Oliver smiles at her and she knows she’s grinning.

“Ready?”

Felicity nods and opens the door wide to let him in.

“Is this your bag?” He asks, gesturing at the colorful backpack by the door.

She nods again. She suddenly feels incredibly nervous, seeing him like this and she doesn't think she can speak without babbling.

“You wore your hair down,” he says happily. “You look beautiful.”

She nods again and this time there’s a kind of manic energy to the movement.

“Felicity,” he says, stepping in close and stroking her cheek. “Relax.”

It’s like a dam has broken.

“I am, I can, I mean I’m a bit on edge but I can relax,” she says, “I can try at least but this, this is not relaxing. This is all ups and downs and roller coaster corners and-”

Her babbling breaks off as he leans in and presses a kiss to her lips.

It’s just a short kiss, a small kiss, but it stuns her into silence.

“I know that traditionally that happens at the end of the first date,” he says, “but I thought if we got it out of the way early then you might feel calmer.”

Felicity looks up at him, this man she’s had a crush on since she met him, this man who shared with her secrets that he’s hidden from the world, whose life she saved and who has saved her life, who brought color and excitement to her very ordinary existence.

And yes he can be arrogant and he can be overprotective and he can be stubborn, but he has a good heart beneath the hood and the designer suits.

“Do it again,” she says, and lifts her arms to wrap them around his neck.

“Just once,” he replies, “we’re on a schedule and I didn’t plan in time for this.”

He grins and kisses her, deeper this time, longer. She open her mouth to him and he wraps her in his arms and they stand caught up in each other.

Felicity won’t call it fireworks because she despises cliches, but there's something about kissing him that feels absolutely and perfectly right. Like she should have been doing it her whole life. Like she could stand here and kiss him forever.

He evidently feels the same way because he keeps on kissing her until his phone beeps at him.

“Right,” she says, her breath coming in heavy pants, “schedule.”

“Schedule,” he agrees and shoulders her bag.

She locks the door behind them and he takes her hand as the walk down the corridor. He doesn’t let go of it, even when holding hands makes getting in the backseat of the car difficult.

Diggle watches from in the driver’s seat and provides an amused commentary via the medium of his eyebrows. Felicity blushes while Oliver ignores him.

* * *

There’s a Lear Jet waiting at the airport and even though she knew it would be there she’s still somewhat stunned. 

Diggle opens the car door for her which generally she would be embarrassed about but right now she’s still staring at the plane with her mouth literally hanging open.

She looks up at Diggle, standing tall in his chauffeur/bodyguard suit and she can see he’s trying so hard not to laugh. 

Oliver, on the other hand, has no such inhibition. She turns shocked eyes on him and he grins.

“I know what you said,” Felicity admits, “but I didn’t really believe it...”

“Where do you think we’re going?” Oliver laughs.

“I don't know,” she says, “I mean I have an idea but I feel like if I say it out loud it won't happen.”

Oliver opens his own car door and walks around the car to where Diggle stands by her door. He leans in and offers her a hand.

“Oliver,” she says, but he smiles and takes her hand and helps her out of the car.

“Paris, Felicity,” he says, “we’re going to Paris. Just like I said we would.”

And she can't speak, she can't think, she can't believe it.

Paris.

So she throws her arms around him. Oliver puts his hands on her waist and lifts her and spins her around and she laughs.

“Better than hot dogs in the park?” He teases her.

“Much,” she says and kisses him.


	10. Paris

Paris is even better than she thought it would be.

In times past she's read books, watched documentaries, seen pictures. When Google added Street View she spent time navigating through twisting streets, following routes from guidebooks or just letting her mouse take her where it would. So it’s not completely new to her. 

But it is better than she ever thought it would be. 

Or maybe that's just the company.

She thinks that if Oliver were here by himself he would be a lot more dour. Instead he’s constantly grinning, seemingly delighted by her reactions to the city. 

She’s probably losing cool points by being so unashamedly enthusiastic, but this is Paris. How can she not be?

And besides she never really went for the hipster thing.

What's the point of loving something if you can't fangirl all over it? And right now she is Paris’ number one fan.

Oliver escorted her onto the plane with a hand on her back and she felt like a movie star. Everything screamed opulence, from the cream leather seats to the crystal cut glasses filled with champagne offered to them by a smiling attendant.

“Wow,” she breathed. “This is... I don't have words for what this is.”

Oliver laughed and showed her how to work the controls for her chair, which seemed to do everything but take off by itself. Lights, air, recline - even a massage function.

Felicity’s mind immediately went to the dirtiest possible interpretation of that, and Oliver laughed at the look on her face. 

“It's not like that,” he said, then paused. “Well maybe it's a little like that.”

She blushed and he laughed and they drank champagne - despite all the advice she had read about sticking to water she found she couldn't not drink the champagne - and as the miles fell away beneath them they watched movies Oliver had missed on the island and talked about pop culture, college, childhood memories and avoided all topics related to the Hood and his vendetta.

She fell asleep somewhere into the second or third movie - she wasn't so much watching them as watching him watching them - and awoke covered with a blanket as the plane descended into Orly airport. 

And then there was Paris.

Diggle had stayed in Starling City but there was another car and driver waiting for them on the runway. Oliver greeted him like an old friend and introduced her to Jacques, who apparently was the caretaker for the Queens' Parisian properties.

“Properties?” She asks and it’s Oliver’s turn to blush. “I thought you said an apartment. An. As in one.”

“Technically there are three,” he admits, “a townhouse that my mother uses, an apartment which is technically on loan to the company as accommodation for visiting execs and my place.”

“Your place?”

“It was a 21st birthday gift,” he says, scratching his head in an embarrassed way. “It's the one I told you about - the one in Montparnasse.”

“You own an apartment in Paris? You, not your family?”

“Technically when I was ’dead’,” he says, “it passed back to my mother.”

“Technically.”

“Technically.”

She eyes him.

“Was this some sort of attempt to seem like a normal person?” She asks, “because I have to say, whether the deed is in your name or your mother’s most people don't own property in Paris.”

He shrugs and she smiles. Other men might snuffle their feet here but that’s not him.

She holds a hand out to him and he takes it.

“C'mon Oliver,” she says, “show me Paris.”

She dozes on his shoulder in the car - morning traffic into the city is worse that she’s ever seen in Starling City, but she supposes that’s to be expected. 

He touches her on the shoulder and she opens her eyes to see ornate buildings with shutters and metal window boxes.

“I thought you might want to see this,” he says, and she follows the gesture of his hand to see the banks of the Seine and Notre Dame cathedral on its island.

After that she doesn't speak for a while. At least not in words. There’s a lot of incoherent squeeing which Oliver is surprisingly tolerant of.

She knows enough about Paris’ layout to know Jacques is taking them on a long scenic route through the city but she doesn’t care. She's seeing things she always dreamed of. She holds tight to Oliver’s hand, possibly crushing his fingers once or twice in her excitement, and watches as he points out notable buildings or squares.

They leave the sights behind, turning into smaller streets until the car pulls over beside small restaurant on the corner or two streets.

“Are you hungry” He asks, “you slept through breakfast.”

“Is it lunch time?”

“Not quite yet,” he says, “but Jacques arranged this, so it’s open if you’re hungry.”

“I'm hungry,” she says, and he smiles and escorts her to a table.

Unsurprisingly French Onion Soup tastes even better in France.

* * *

He offers her choices at lunch. The entire city is open for them and he wants to show it off. Does she want to climb the Eiffel Tower or visit the Louvre? He’s got a boat standing by for a trip on the river or Jacques can drive them out to Versailles.

“This is too much,” she says.

“No,” he replies.

“It is,” she says, “you didn't need to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” he says, “I wanted to show you Paris.”

“What's the second date?” She teases him. “London? Rome?”

“If you like,” he says, and she stares at him.

“No,” she decides, “our second date will be at my place. I’ll attempt to cook something and then when it’s all burned we can order in pizza and watch a movie, maybe.”

“I’d like that,” he says.

“You don't have to take me around the world,” she says, taking his hand. “I just want to spend time with you.”

He smiles but there’s an edge to it. She can't quite figure out what it is, so when he guides her towards the car she shakes her head. 

“Jacques can drop our bags off,” she says, “right?”

“Yes.”

“You asked me what I want to see,” she smiles, “I want to see Paris with you.”

She slips her arm through his and tugs him away from the car. “Let’s just walk,” she says, “which way to the river?”

Jacques points them in the right direction and they walk together, sometimes arm-in-arm, sometimes hand-in-hand, but always together, walking and talking through the streets of Paris.

* * *

Later he has Jacques pick them up near the Champs Élysées and drive them back to the apartment.

“We’ve got a reservation for eight,” he says.

She looks at her watch.

“It’s barely five,” she points out, raising an eyebrow.

“I know how long Thea takes to get ready,” he replies.

“And you thought I’d be the same?” 

Oliver blinks and then looks not unlike a deer in the headlights.

“I didn’t-” he starts.

And she laughs.

“You are so easy,” she laughs. “All girls are the same. All women.”

He blanches and she laughs.

“Too easy.”

Oliver mock glares at her.

“I'm trying to be considerate,” he says and she sticks her tongue out at him.

They make out in the back seat of the car for the rest of the journey.

* * *

He had her things put in the spare room of his apartment. Which she thinks privately is faintly ridiculous. Frankly there is no way she’s not going to sleep with him tonight.

Which is to say that's she’s not planning on jumping him but she's not going to enforce a separate bed rule just because they haven't had the requisite number of dates.

She’s sewed up gashes in his skin. She thinks that puts them ahead in intimacy terms.

But so far he’s been seemingly careful not to push her. All of his kisses are careful - passionate but measured. His hands stay above her clothing and do not stray.

She never would have thought she might have to be the one to push things further. After all, he is Oliver Queen. She's sure she remembers rumours of a sex tape back in his pre-island days. 

But right now he's being so respectful

And she feels respected. Very respected. 

And she remembers yelling at him about boundaries and not just taking what he wants and she now wishes he hadn't paid quite so much attention.

So she curls her hair and does her lipstick and dresses in her best underwear and her favorite dress. 

It's green. She knows he likes green.

And when she walks out of her room she sees him sitting on the tiny metal balcony, dressed in a sharp suit and sipping wine.

The sun is setting behind him and she’s in Paris and he brought her here and she feels her heart thump and knows she’s done for.

“Felicity,” he says, turning and smiling, “you look beautiful.”

She feels herself blush. 

And he stands and pulls a jewellery box from his pocket and offers it to her.

“I got you something,” he says, “I know I probably shouldn't have but I saw them and I thought of you, and... Anyway, here.”

She open the box and finds a pair of earrings. Gold settings and tiny green stones, delicate and stunning.

She looks up to see him hovering, almost nervous.

“Oliver.”

“Are they too much?”

“Yes,” she says honestly, “but I love them anyway.”

She slips out the plain gold hoops she’s currently wearing and puts in the emerald studs. 

“Where are we going?”

“L’Atelior de Joel Robuchon,” he says, “for the tasting menu.”

“Was it hard to get a table?”

“Jacques did it,” he says, “but I think there were bribes offered and favours exchanged. It's supposed to be one of the best in the city.”

“So,” she says, running her hand up the front of his shirt, “would you be really disappointed if we didn't go?”

“I don't understand.”

Even though these shoes give her three extra inches of height she still has to go up on her toes to kiss him.

“Felicity,” he says, “I promised you Paris.”

“Yes,” she says, “and you delivered it.”

“Felicity,” he says, somewhat plaintively. 

“Oliver,” she says as plainly as she can. “I’m offering you a chance to skip dinner. Today has been amazing. But I'd like to get to the night part of the date.”

“Oh,” he says. His hands come up to cup her face. “Oh.”

“Yes,” she says between kisses, “oh.”

Paris really is better than she ever thought it would be.

And so is Oliver.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very very short epilogue to end this one.

She wakes in his bed, in his room. From here she can see sunlight streaming through the open window, the thin drapes moving in the morning breeze.

She can't see Paris right now - the drapes are in the way and besides she's not wearing her glasses - but she can hear it. Different sounding car horns toot and unfamiliar sirens wail in the distance. The narrow streets magnify the sound of passing mopeds, sending the engine noise echoing up between the walls of the building to interrupt her rest.

She turns and sees Oliver lying on his side watching her.

“Morning,” she says.

“Morning,” he smiles.

She moves across the sheets, wriggling closer to him.

He grins and leans forward to kiss her.

“I have to admit,” she says when he pulls back. “I never thought this would happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re you,” she says simply, “and I'm me. This isn't something that happens to people like me.”

“Paris?” He asks and she can tell he’s not getting it.

“No,” she says, waving a hand between them, “this.”

“I wasn't expecting this either,” he says, “but I'm not complaining.”

“Now,” she teases, “I remember several complaints last week.”

Oliver scowls and she lays a kiss on the back of his hand. Then his wrist. Then the skin of his forearm.

“Last week I had a reason to complain,” he grumbles, almost pouting.

She lifts herself up to kiss his lips because there are few things more adorable than a naked grumpy Oliver Queen bathed in morning sunshine.

He wraps his arms around her and rolls them backwards, so she’s pulled up on top of him. She moves with him, kisses him, touches him.

She can feel the beginnings of deeper feelings inside her - she knew she was gone the second he kissed her in the park, and now lying in his arms she can't deny it.

But she won’t give voice to them just yet.

They have time.

Oliver pulls back, staring up at her.

“You really are beautiful,” he says.

“Look who’s talking,” she says with a grin.

And he looks almost bashful.

She leans down to kiss him, revelling in the sight of him, naked and happy.

Because you have to enjoy a view like that.


End file.
